#and sacred burial grounds

[permament-witzelsucht]

Walter Crane (1845-1915) - Keats' Tomb in the Protestant Cemetery, 1873

[giannic]

[xr-377]

It's really what everyone wanted

What I love the most about this despite the fact Gene, Majel, and Arthur probably would have been overjoyed is that the Navajo Nation got the greatest win here.

Cause when your best case scenario is that the NASA rubberstampers for this forgot the agreement they made to communicate further lunar burials perhaps it's for the best this little for profit launch goes hurtling off course into the interstellar abyss.

Besides, now future space travelers can have treasure hunts to find the final resting place of these champions of inspirational exploration.

[renpinefur]

Joining tumblr now is so funny to me cause I get to follow all these ppl and it's like "I remember you from looking up 'furry tumblr posts' in like 2017 you're the doctor yiff guy right"

[quasieli]

[Image description: Eight pages from the comic Mighty Nein Origins: Caduceus Clay. The first six pages feature a young Caduceus and his mother, Constance, while the last two pages show an older Caduceus, as well as his father, Cornelius, and sister, Clarabelle.

Page 1: A wide shot of the Blooming Grove, with a beautiful stone and wood temple sat at the center of a verdant cemetery. From afar, Constance calls outs "Caduceus!"

Page 2: Constance is stood behind her son, with his head only partially in frame. The first panel shows her saying, "There you are, didn't you hear me calling?" In the second panel, she is leaning down to her son, a concerned look on her face as she says "Oh."

Page 3: A smaller panel shows Caduceus cupping a dead bird in his hands, holding it tenderly. The wider panel then shows his mother sitting down beside him, the pair sat next to a head stone. He leans his head into her shoulder as she asks, "Would you like some help?" The pair then proceed ro bury the bird.

Page 4: Constance and Caduceus are kneeling in the dirt, over the bird's burial spot. Constance asks, "Ready?, with Caduceus responding "Mh-hmm." The pair touch the ground where the bird was buried, and soon a bright orange flower magically blooms from the spot, causing Caduceus to startle.

Page 5: Constance sits beside her son, her hand gentle touching his face as she says, "Death and decay are a part of a circle, a wheel turning without a beginning or end. Death is how we nurture life, Caduceus." He looks down at the flower as he asks, "Then how comes it hurts?" Caduceus lays down in his mother's arms as she explains, "Because you loved them." A smaller panel shows a closer shot of their faces as she asks, "Do you regret that love?"

Page 6: A small panel shows a closeup shot of Caduceus, looking sad as he replies "No." Another wide shot of the Grove is shown, with the pair sat at the center, Constance continuing, "Part of love is knowing they will go, and cherishing them with your whole heart in the face of that hurt." Another small panel shows a closeup of the newly bloomed flower, with some of its loose petal blowing into the wind.

Page 7: An interior shot, a number of years in the future, showing an adult Caduceus asleep in his flower filled bedroom. He wakes upon hearing the voices of his father and sister, who are in another room, getting up to go investigate. His sister says "I just don't think it's fair that --", Cornelius interjects, "Clarabelle, please keep your voice down."

Page 8: Caduceus comes down the stairs tiredly rubbing his eyes while his father and sister continue to argue. Clarabelle says, "I will not until you--", cutting herself off as she sees her brother appear. Cornelius moves to ready some gear as Caduceus asks "You're leaving?" He responds "The corruption isn't going away on its own. Maybe... maybe your mother found something out there. I'll find her and your aunt, and find a cure." Clarabelle steps forward, declaring "It should be my turn! I'm old enough and faster than you, anyway!" To which Cornelius responds, as he begins to depart, "Clarabelle Clay, mind yourself. Stay home with your brother." End description.]

Sneak preview of Caduceus's origin comic from Polygon!

Generations of the Clay family have tended to the careful rituals in the Blooming Grove. But when corruption begins to creep in on their sacred space, the Clays depart one by one to seek answers. Soon young Caduceus and Clarabelle are the only ones left, and when a dangerous burial quest falls to Caduceus, he must leave the Grove to do the family’s work.

[burr-ell]

Sometimes Things That Shake Up the Status Quo are Worse

I keep seeing people insisting that Exandria "can't return to the status quo, which was bad", but rarely do they say anything in support of that argument beyond "the Primes pick and choose favorites!". And while I'm not confident the show itself won't try to make that claim, the reality is that it just isn't borne out mechanically or narratively. Laying aside that non-Divine Soul sorcerers exist (like, and I'm just spitballing here, Aberrant Mind Ruidusborn), the gods work primarily through the on-the-ground efforts of clerics and paladins—people who have actively and consistently put in the work to devote themselves to the divine. This is a setting where resurrection magic, which relies on divine power, has been intentionally made more difficult than it is in DnD rules-as-written. Even clerics only get access to Divine Intervention at level 10 (when they've already spent a long time devoting themselves to their deity) and up until level 20 the chances of it actually working are vanishingly small—and level 20 clerics are both hard to come by and ultimately still limited.

In the rare event that the Prime Deities choose to bless someone who isn't a cleric or paladin, it's someone who has a good reason to have gotten their attention. Vax offered his life during a divine ritual in the burial site of the Raven Queen's most devoted champion and then actively committed himself to her cause. Yasha was an aasimar being mind-controlled by a devil who wound up at a divine altar and chose to worship Kord after he freed her. Orym is the devoted widower of someone who is in Melora's realm and was present at a ritual in a temple associated with Melora, and one of his companions prayed at a shrine to Melora on his behalf. Vex was directly in front of Pelor, had taken a leadership position in one of his sacred cities, and had received a vision from him directly—and even then, she had to earn it. Scanlan also had to earn the right to Ioun's favor and complete a trial, and had previously shown qualities and values that she believed were fitting of her champion. Fjord was a companion of a devoted cleric of Melora who had sought her help in keeping Uk'otoa sealed and made requests of her on Fjord's behalf, and Fjord also chose to meditate and then became a paladin devoted to her.

And in Exandria, if you don't want to follow a god, you don't have to. Percy, Keyleth, Grog, Beau, Veth, Caleb, Essek, most of Bell's Hells, the average commoner in the various cities the parties have traveled to—whether they outright dislike the gods as a whole or just don't have an interest either way, they're all capable of thriving with or without them, and indeed their problems are almost entirely caused by mortals. It's especially egregious when you consider that cities like Avalir were around during the Age of Arcanum, when the Prime Deities physically walked Exandria, and people like Laerryn, Patia, Zerxus, and Lacrytia Hollow—openly disdainful of the gods or even trying to create feats of magic to get on their level—were continuing business as usual. The previous god of death not only willingly abdicated in favor of a mortal during this time, but outright helped her do the job!

The Prime Deities can't win. If they didn't give anyone any power at all, they'd be viewed as selfish. If they'd stayed on Exandria after the Calamity, they'd be foolish and reckless. They're simply not capable of intervening and helping everyone, so they're labeled capricious. If they leave Exandria, they're abandoning not only their refuge and home, but also the people who need and rely on them. You can argue that "no one should have that much power" all you want, but I think it's exceptionally silly to take an argument meant to criticize the wealthy and powerful of our world (whose only unique quality is ultimately that they got lucky) and apply it to fictional deities (beings who are powerful by their very nature) who, while flawed, also think they're too powerful. They tried to protect Exandria from themselves and the Betrayers while still using their power to do right by the people there, and for the most part it was working just fine.

The "status quo" from before all this was and still is the best compromise available. No one has managed to sell a better one that doesn't amount to "cater to my blorbos and my self-indulgent idea of revolutionary politics, which may or may not also ultimately circle back to my blorbos". I think that's pretty telling.

[cassandragemini]

tulip and tadai are tohono o’odham so i spent a lot of time doing research on that culture and so many contemporary articles about them are about how the us mexico border has bisected their community and the construction of the border wall has destroyed some of their sacred sites. and a lot of the research i did on the ecology of the sonoran desert kept mentioning how the border wall endangers wildlife and kills keystone species. just a couple weeks ago bidens administration completely bypassed like 26 environmental laws + native grave desecration laws to continue construction. horrific human rights violations are committed against migrants every day in the name of maintaining an imaginary line and its just background noise. dawg we gotta start killing people

writing period fiction especially period fiction set in the americas can be depressing sometimes cause if you doing your due diligence you gotta read about indescribable amounts of environmental destruction and settler ecocide

[talltalesandbedtimestories]

The Iceman Cometh - Dean x Reader

“The Iceman Cometh” - Dean x Reader

Rating Mature

Dean x Reader

Tags: Sweaty Dean, Turning Up The Heat, Ice Play, Mild Smut, Nipple Play, I Will Again Be Accused of Blue-Balling

Word Count: 1700

You normally love a sticky, slippery, and sweaty Dean. But, this. This is pushing it.

I'm participating in @jacklesversebingo and this part will fill my "Ice-play" square.

A/N: I just wanted to mix things up and write something short and fun.

Image created in Canva (photo used/found online: Facebook - Una Vida SPN)

You normally love a sticky, slippery, and sweaty Dean. But, this. This is pushing it.

“I’m sorry, what?” Dean fists his hands leaning on the motel office counter.

“AC’s out in the only room I got left!” The old lady with coke bottle glasses and Wilma Flinstone pearls repeats herself. Her cigarette-laced voice is scratchy and a couple squeaks higher this time.

You groan. Dean side-eyes you but doesn’t turn his head to acknowledge the irritation.

“It’s 100 degrees out. We get some kinda discount for pain and suffering?” he asks.

“I’ll knock ten bucks off the bill.”

“Ten bucks?” You huff out an incredulous chuckle.

“We’ll take it.”

Before you can yell at him, Dean’s already slapped a credit card on the counter.

~~~~~

Of course, this had to be the first motel with a vacancy during the two-hour trek through the Nevada desert region.

The hotbox of a room smells of mildew, cigarettes, and vinegar. You plod through the humidity and stale stench. Every bit of odor clings to your perspiring skin so there’s no escaping it. Dean curses as he taps buttons and thumbs dials on the window air conditioner, just to verify it's inoperable. You drop your bag on the bed and beeline to the bathroom. 

Dean needs a shower more than you. He was the one who wrestled and skewered a ghoul in a sacred burial ground. But you’re gonna be salty about his decision to stop. You’d wanted to keep going, offering to share driving duties. Who cares if neither one of you had slept in over 24 hours? 

Your pants are around your ankles in a second. The loose porcelain bowl seesaws under your weight. Regardless, you sigh in relief, weeing out all the water you’ve been guzzling to stay hydrated. 

The rap of Dean’s knuckles on the bathroom door interrupts your steady stream of piss. “I’m gonna grab somethin’ at the diner we passed.” Dean’s second preferred method of appeasing you is feeding you. “Be back as soon as I can. Save me some COLD water, baby.” 

A hard tug of the motel door seconds later rattles the paint-by-numbers sagebrush framed on the wall behind the toilet. 

Dean left without taking your food order. You grind your teeth.

~~~~~

Forty minutes pass before the familiar engine rumbles into the lot and headlights flash through the sheer curtains.

The diner was a good fifteen minutes away, one-way, if Dean had been going the speed limit. The Impala’s warp speed must have been activated for him to have actually ordered and brought back dinner. Your stomach somersaults with distress and hunger pangs.

Dean opens the door only to hover within the threshold, a human doorstop.

You’re in a tank top and boy shorts. The best thing you could use to fan yourself is a file folder Sam stuffed with case material before you and Dean left Kansas.

Dean stretches and drops the bag of takeout on the nearby kitchenette table. He eyes you with a frown. “I’m sorry it’s shit in here. I’d say we could sleep in Baby, but it’s worse outside. Seriously.”

You’re laid atop the bed stripped of its scratchy and threadbare comforter, which is now a heap on the floor. “You know, all the times you’ve had to put that car back together again piece by piece; maybe one of those times you could have installed some air conditioning.”

He raises a finger to signal you should wait for something impressive. He dips half his body back outside, foot holding the door open. There’s bumping and huffing. Then the green cooler appears, held triumphantly in his hands. “I brought ice! Waitress at the diner sold me pounds of the stuff.” He’s sensibly in only a t-shirt, having left his duffle and jacket in the room when he’d left earlier. 

“The iceman cometh.” The eyeroll is excessive, but you can’t seem to not.

“Eat, grumpy. My turn for a shower.”

~~~~~

He crunches ice chips. You suck on one cube, swirling it from one cheek pocket to the other until it melts, and then repeat with another. Forearm to forearm, you both sprawl out on the queen-sized mattress. You snapped at him earlier about the heat the boob tube would create. He stews alongside your percolating tension. You’ve allowed the bathroom light to stay on. A yellow fluorescent haze slices from the open door and spills over Dean.

There’s no escape from the heat.

“Pulse points,” he mutters.

“Right,” you snip. Your hand scoops ice out of your red solo cup. You circle a cube along your inner wrist.

There’s a shake from his side of the bed. You glance over. He’s shirtless, clad only in his boxers, rubbing ice up and down the back of his neck. Which only pisses you off more.

This hunt was supposed to end days ago. You were supposed to be celebrating your anniversary at the bunker today. You had some fun times planned. A surprise dinner of all Dean’s favorites and a movie marathon in the Dean Cave.

“I’m sorry,” you and Dean mumble simultaneously.

“We’ll get back on the road soon, sweetheart. I was spent and seeing double. Even if I can’t sleep, it’ll help just not being in motion.”

“I’ve been a major bitch.” You laugh at Dean’s deer-in-headlights reaction to your admission. “You don’t have to agree or disagree on that count, babe. You know how I get when shit doesn’t go according to plan. And, this fucking heat is not helping.”

“We both pop our tops an equal amount. That’s what makes us perfect for each other.” The backs of two of his fingers skim your elbow.

“Except when we both blow up at the same time.”

“Nah, that’s even better. Then we get to have angry make-up sex.”

You whoop out a laugh. “That’s never happened.”

“It could now?”

You grin. “But I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at everything else.”

He shrugs. “Take it out on me, then.” He reconsiders. “Or, let me cool you down?”

It’s your turn to raise a brow.

Dean grins. He tips his head way back with the cup to his lips. He shakes his hand and the ice crackles. Cup back in his lap, you spot one cheek puffed out like a chipmunk. His face crinkles up.

“You’re gonna give yourself brain freeze, idiot.”

“Worth it,” he mumbles.

His lips lean in to press a kiss. You giggle at Dean’s clumsy attempt with a mouthful of ice. A surprised squeal follows when he slips an ice cube between pursed lips to run across yours. He pulls back and smiles, crooked and unhinged. He plops the cubes into his cup sounding like a penny slot machine and sits it on his side table. 

He pulls you in close for a kiss, expertly grabbing your cup from your hands. You can’t be bothered to care where he hides it.

His tongue is so cool. A popsicle with a mind of its own that you want to suck on for days. He’s very agreeable to the way your lips wrap around it. He moans. You love the particular sound of that one. It strains out of his throat. Thankful. Relaxed.

He’s fiddling with more ice, having wedged your cup between two pillows. “You’re always so hot,” he quips after you relinquish his tongue.

You skim one leg between his thighs. The skin contact is tacky and sticky. “You’re always so cheesy.”

“Not always,” Dean says with a smirk. “In this instance, I’m just stating a fact.”

You hiccup a gasp at the ice cube he presses to your wrist without warning.

Dean glides it slow, a serpentine slither, to the crook of your elbow. He swirls the spot and lets it melt and drip from your body to the sheets. His green eyes concentrate on the task. 

You can’t help but lose yourself watching him. His body shimmers in a sheen of sweat. Every minute shift highlights the beautiful angles of his face. Perspiration beads up under the hairline of his forehead. You can’t resist kissing and sipping at his upper lip. He grins and returns the gesture.

He uses another piece of ice to continue upward to your shoulder. He traces the shoulder strap of your tank. A hop over it and he’s sliding down the outline of your collar. It’s a quick ride into your cleavage where he lets the remnants melt and add to the already damp material.

His tongue laps at the wetness that’s collected there. You sigh and lean back. He hums and kisses the curve of your breast, slides the strap down, and then nuzzles into the notch of your armpit.

After a few seconds, he rises up in order to gaze into your eyes with the most innocent of expressions; even though he’s freed one of your tits from the confines of your clothing.

More ice rattles by your ear like maracas.

You’re in trouble.

You purse your lips at the biting cold against your neck. It’s electrifying and refreshing. He outlines your collarbone back and forth for emphasis. A shift and he’s leaning beside you, up on one elbow to drink in the sight. One leg drapes over yours, locking you into place. You feel the growing bulge in his boxers. There’s no escaping what he has in store.

He juggles two cubes between his fingers and journeys along the crest of your breast. He’s grinning with mischief and lust now. Then his mouth parts when the ice meets your nipple. Your flesh hardens and tightens on contact. You groan. Your core clenches.

He gnaws on his bottom lip as he circles the dark pebbling bud. Air squeaks out of your mouth. You squirm. It’s a beautiful freeze burn of contrast.

Once the ice melts, his fingers, also chilled, take over kneading and pinching. His patience gone, he bends down and latches onto your cool tit. He nurses with that sinful mouth and grazes your nipple with tongue and teeth until your skin tingles back to life.

You are so out of your head with the noises he’s making and the show he’s putting on, that you're ill-prepared for his cold fingers slipping under the hem of your shorts.

You shriek giggle, “Dean!”

He ends his sucking with a loud pop. He whispers against your lips, “Happy Anniversary, sweetheart.”

~~~~~

Update: Got inspired and filled another bingo square with these two. You can read "Just A Little Spice" here.

[blueiscoool]

Herculaneum Scrolls Reveal Plato's Burial Place

Researchers used AI to decipher an ancient papyrus that includes details about where Greek philosopher is buried.

The decipherment of an ancient scroll has revealed where the Greek philosopher Plato is buried, Italian researchers suggest.

Graziano Ranocchia, a philosopher at the University of Pisa, and colleagues used artificial intelligence (AI) to decipher text preserved on charred pieces of papyrus recovered in Herculaneum, an ancient Roman town located near Pompeii, according to a translated statement from Italy's National Research Council.

Like Pompeii, Herculaneum was destroyed in A.D. 79 when Mount Vesuvius erupted, cloaking the region in ash and pyroclastic flows.

One of the scrolls carbonized by the eruption includes the writings of Philodemus of Gadara (lived circa 110 to 30 B.C.), an Epicurean philosopher who studied in Athens and later lived in Italy. This text, known as the "History of the Academy," details the academy that Plato founded in the fourth century B.C. and gives details about Plato's life, including his burial place.

Historians already knew that Plato, the famous student of Socrates who wrote down his teacher's philosophies as well as his own, was buried at the Academy, which the Roman general Sulla destroyed in 86 B.C. But researchers weren't sure exactly where on the school's grounds that Plato, who died in Athens in 348 or 347 B.C., had been laid to rest.

However, with advances in technology, researchers were able to employ a variety of cutting-edge techniques including infrared and ultraviolet optical imaging, thermal imaging and tomography to read the ancient papyrus, which is now part of the collection at the National Library of Naples.

So far, researchers have identified 1,000 words, or roughly 30% of the text written by Philodemus.

"Among the most important news, we read that Plato was buried in the garden reserved for him (a private area intended for the Platonic school) of the Academy in Athens, near the so-called Museion or sacellum sacred to the Muses," researchers wrote in the statement. "Until now it was only known that he was buried generically in the Academy."

The text also detailed how Plato was "sold into slavery" sometime between 404 and 399 B.C. (It was previously thought that this occurred in 387 B.C.)

Another part of the translated text describes a dialogue between characters, in which Plato shows disdain for the musical and rhythmic abilities of a barbarian musician from Thrace, according to the statement.

This isn't the first time that researchers have used AI to read ancient scrolls that survived Mount Vesuvius's eruption. Earlier this year, researchers deciphered a different scroll that was charred during the volcanic eruption at a nearby villa that once belonged to Julius Caesar's father-in-law.

By Jennifer Nalewicki.

[enviedear]

ain't it a gentle sound, rolling in the graves

⤷ billy bonney

౨ৎ synopsis— an outlaw on borrowed time finds solace in the gravedigger's daughter. she's the flowers growing underneath the stones marking the place fit for his overdue remains.

౨ৎ warnings— talks of death and the dead, unresolved ending, billy being sad and lonesome, and a bunch of flowery language. 2.1k words

request ⊹ send me your thoughts

the grounds of the dead feel more like home than the adobe brick walls you've always known. rarely, does anyone else stop by to visit. your heart harbors no blame for their apprehension.. the graves attract the worst of beasts— and not the kinds such as coyotes and wolves— desperate men.

it's not uncommon for sacred remains to be unearthed times over by the forlorn. those with debts, twisted needs, and cruel intentions shovel away the sanctity of the decaying.

you've attended every burial and thus, every re-burial. sometimes the bodies are gone, never to be returned, but still the hole in the earth is filled and laid with stones. your father mutters prayers to the spirits that remain, wandering lonely without their last tie to the living.

he opts to leave as soon as possible afterward, but you never seem to find the will. just you alone with the dead.

all your time spent here, and yet, tonight is marked the first of another breathing figure standing above the graves just as you. his back faces you, legs long, hair umber, and clothes well-worn.

you're too slow to notice the pistol at his side before you make a noise, prompting him to turn to you. the wind is a quiet whistle but you only hear the thump of your frightened heart.

his pale blue eyes pierce through the fade of sunlight, sweeping across every inch of you in one swift motion before straightening, "i'll be gone soon. i apologize if i wasn't supposed to be up here this late."

there's a flash of recognition in your mind, a small sliver. the young man ahead of you is known to offer men up to early graves, a true laborer of the devil and his reapers.

you swallow hard, trying to find your voice amidst the surge of fear and curiosity, "who are you?" you manage to ask, your words barely audible.

the young man's lips curl into a faint smile, "names don't really matter in this place," he replies, a hint of amusement in his voice, "but you can call me william. or billy, if you prefer."

"billy?" the name ushers in recollection, sharp and eerie, down your spine, the weight of its significance settling heavily on your mind.

you've heard stories about him, whispered tales of his destructive deeds. a known gunslinger, killer, and outlaw alone with you. if he wanted, you could join the bodies below your soles and no one could relay the tale.

"what are you doing here?" you inquire cautiously, keeping a safe distance between yourself and him.

his eyes narrow slightly as he scans the graveyard, his gaze lingering on the weathered tombstones and wooden crosses, "i came seeking comfort," he answers cryptically, "the dead make for fine listeners."

the air grows heavy with tension as you contemplate his words. your instincts scream at you to flee, to escape from this unholy meeting. but something about him draws you in, a morbid curiosity that refuses to be ignored.

"why did you bring that?" you pause, hesitant, "the gun." nodding towards the weapon strapped to his side.

billy's expression shades for a moment before he shrugs nonchalantly, "protection," he states simply. "not t'smart to go without one. not here."

a chill runs down your spine as his words sink in. you've always known of the monsters traversing this land, but for some reason your mind refuses to place billy alongside them. you draw closer to him instead, "are you... someone i'd need protection from?" you venture to ask, your voice weak.

he chuckles softly, a sound that echoes eerily through the graveyard, "m'no different from those who wander these grounds," he says, his voice dripping with an unsettling mix of melancholy and dismay, "but i won't hurt you, sweetheart. m'just a wandering soul."

silence settles over the graveyard, broken only by the distant hoot of an owl. you study billy's face, trying to decipher the true nature behind his enigmatic words.

as the setting sun dances upon his features, you find yourself captivated by the depths of his eyes. they hold a sadness that no words could adequately convey, and yet, a glimmer of hope lingers within them. as if he carries the weight of the world upon his shoulders, but still possesses the strength to bear it.

the wind whispers through the graveyard, carrying with it the scents of flowers and freshly turned earth. you take a step closer, unable to resist the gravitational pull drawing you towards him. his presence is both intimidating and alluring, like a force of nature that you cannot help but be drawn to.

"do you have someone laid here?" you inquire softly, your voice tinged with curiosity.

billy's gaze meets yours, his eyes glimmering with a mixture of sorrow and longing, "no," he replies, his voice as gentle as a whisper on the breeze, "but i've been looking down at graves my whole life. suppose i know the dead better than the living now."

a gust of wind rustles through the trees, causing leaves to dance in the air. the atmosphere charged with a heat that seems to swelter between the two of you.

"tell me, stranger," billy says, his voice filled with an irregular vulnerability, "do you know who i am?"

you pause, the seriousness of his question sinking in, "there are posters around town," you reply honestly, "but i imagine you're just fine. probably just best left unprovoked."

a wistful smile flickers across billy's face. "yeah, something like that," he murmurs, his gaze fixed on a distant horizon. "i don't want to..." he trails off before cursing, "i won't hurt you, swear. you can come closer."

curiosity takes hold of you once more as you inch closer to him, "necessity? is that what led you down your path?" you inquire, your voice laced with compassion. he looks about your age, and you find it hard to believe he created this life for himself in earnest.

billy's eyes meet yours, filled with remorse, "desperation more like," he confesses, his words woven with regret, "i was born into a world that offered me no chances, no opportunities for redemption. so i became what they expected me to be— easier that way."

you can't help but feel a pang of sympathy as you observe the anguish etched onto his weathered face, "you seem quite soft of heart, despite it."

billy's lips twitch, a fleeting semblance of a smile before he turnes his gaze away from you. "appearances can be deceiving," he mutters, his voice tinged with bitterness. "you don't know the things i've done, the lives i've taken."

a heaviness settles in the air as silence drapes over both of you like a suffocating shroud. the wind is steadily dying down, leaving behind a bizarre calmness that mirrors the abyss of outlaws' past.

"but people can change," you offer softly, your words floating on a fragile hope, "no one is defined solely by their mistakes. not unless they want to be."

he scoffs, the sound dripping with contempt, "change is a luxury i can't afford, sweetheart" he replies, his voice carrying a bit of resignation, "some paths we tread on have no way out."

your heart aches at the defeat in his words, but a stubborn determination blossoms within you. you refuse to accept that someone stood beyond redemption, especially someone with a soul as bright as his.

"everyone deserves a chance at redemption," you press, voice infused with conviction, "no matter how far they've wandered their path."

billy's eyes flicker with an unfamiliar glimmer as he turns to face you once more, "you really believe that?" he asks, searching for sincerity.

"i do," you answer firmly, "sometimes it takes just one person to believe in us for us to find our way back."

he furrows his brows, "and how'd you figure that?"

you shrug, "my daddy digs all the graves. sometimes the entire town comes out for someone's burial, but most of the time it's just us." you sigh, taking a glance at him, "but even those with only our eyes to witness their descent get a prayer of hope. they may never know it, but the man who dug their grave offers redemption. a belief of good in the after."

"and what if i don't deserve that?" he asks, his voice laced with uncertainty.

you reach out and place a hand on his shoulder, "deserving or not, redemption isn't earned through perfection," you explain softly, “it's found in the willingness to confront our mistakes and strive for something better. all the small acts of kindness we give and a genuine desire to change."

he hums in contemplation before replying, "you're real smart, you know that? probably too smart to be wastin' your time on me."

you smile gently, your hand still resting on billy's shoulder, "maybe i am smart," you say, amusement in your tone, "but that doesn't mean i can't see the good in people." a breath, "and for wasting my time on you? i don't see it like that at all. you've given me no trouble."

billy looks at you, his eyes searching for any signs of deception. after a moment of silence, he sighs and shakes his head. "you don't know what you're getting yourself into," he warns. "i'm not the kind of man a nice girl should be redeeming."

"i'm not naïve," you reply, your voice steady and unwavering. "i won't play the part of the fool, but, i don't see fault in offering friendship."

billy's face softens as he listens to your words. it's as if a spark of hope ignites within him, one he thought had long been extinguished. "you remind me of someone," he murmurs, his voice tinged with nostalgia, "but they faded away a long time ago."

your grip on billy's shoulder tightens slightly as you lean in closer. "no one ever truly fades away," you say.

a twinge of sadness tugs at your heartstrings as you observe him. despite his reputation as an outlaw, there was something vulnerable about him that drew you in. something desperate for connection and understanding. you couldn't help but wonder what sort of troubles led him down a path so different from your own.

without thinking, you reach a hand towards him, offering a small gesture of comfort and camaraderie—or perhaps just to touch flesh to flesh after so much time among the remains.

he hesitates before slipping his own hand into your grasp, palms meeting under the fading light of dusk, "if i were a devout man i'd call you an angel," he murmurs softly, squeezing your hand gently.

you're glad that the moon is just starting to rise, casting a silvery glow over the graveyard. it makes him look almost… sacred, despite being a wanted man. you can't help but to feel safe in his presence.

your eyes drift to his hand in yours, suddenly nervous by your forward action. caught between pulling away and wondering what his touch feels like elsewhere—his skin rough, as expected, calloused from hours and hours of holding a gun.

but there's a warmth to his touch that surprises you, a sense of humanity that contradicts the tales you've heard about him. you look up to find him studying you, his eyes scanning every inch of yours while he holds onto your hand. the air thick with anticipation and something else, something unknown but suddenly intoxicating.

in this moment of solace, a large part of your mind is wrought with contemplation. the gunslinging stranger is tame as a loyal dog, but he also defies the boundaries of both your respective futures. as much as you want to hold onto him, reality begins to settle in and you reluctantly release your hold of him. the moon has risen higher in the sky, the air colder.

"i should go," billy says regretfully, cutting through the silence between you.

you nod, understanding that he needs to keep moving, "i hope to see you again, when things settle down."

it's a hopeful thing to wish for, to ask of him, but he gives you a grin, "you will. i have a bad habit of stickin' around where i'm not wanted."

as he turns to leave, you watch him go with a mess of sentiments swirling inside you. part of you wishes he could stay a little longer, but another part knows that it's for the best. his lifestyle is dangerous and unpredictable, and being around him would only put you in danger. still, you let that hopeful ember spark with the indelible nature of his words.

you take one last look at his retreating figure before turning back to the graves. finally time for you to say goodbye your solemn sanctary. as you pass stone markers and crosses, a final glance back at the graveyard where billy disappeared into the darkness and a demure prayer for the backsliders' gunman not to veer too far away.

—reblog and like if you enjoyed, let ur local writer know you like her work !

billy taglist— @honey-bees-13 @poppyflower-22 @black-yn @siriuslybeloved @sherlollyliveson18 @cosmicspacewitch @aravenswritingdeskblog @sabrinasbd @cqsmo @coconut-dreamz @preciouspinkyy @dominqueeekk @black-yn

₊˚౨ৎ˚₊ to remain on my taglist, make sure to interact by reblogging

[good-old-gossip]

In the Gaza Strip, there are two cemeteries that contain the remains of British soldiers, most of whom died fighting in World War One, a few of whom died in World War Two.

Owned by the UK-based Commonwealth War Graves Commission, they are known locally as the British graveyards, and are regarded as a major cultural and archaeological site in the Palestinian enclave.

The Gaza War Cemetery lies in al-Tuffah neighbourhood in the north of Gaza. It has 3,217 graves, of which 781 are unidentified. Second World War burials number 210.

There are 30 post-war burials and 234 war graves of other nationalities. The other is located in the north of Deir al-Balah, in the area of al-Zwayda.

Inside it lies 724 soldiers, all of them British. Both cemeteries have survived since Israel's war on Gaza began, just as they have survived many conflicts before.

In 2006, the Gaza War Cemetery was partially damaged by an Israeli missile. Israel paid £90,000 as compensation.

In addition, about 350 headstones needed repair after Israel’s three-week assault on Gaza in 2009. Few areas of Gaza have been spared the onslaught of Israel’s latest military operation.

But compared with the scores of Palestinian graveyards left in ruins by the assault, the British cemeteries appear to have been consciously avoided. Al-Shujayya, Beit Hanoon and Khan Younis's cemeteries have all been wrecked, as well as the graveyard of the Church of Saint Porphyrius - believed to be the world's third oldest church - which was reduced to rubble.

Running out of capacity since January and receiving scores of corpses every day, the municipality of Deir al-Balah has been reliant on mass graves to absorb the influx.

“The continuous Israeli bombardment leaves us with no choice. We dig tens of metres deep into the ground to bury people. There were days I had to bury 300 or 400 people," Abu Jawad Baraka, a 64-year-old undertaker, told MEE.

"But Israel can’t cause havoc to the British graveyards and will pay so much money in compensation to repair what was barely damaged. They’re sacred to them, and just thinking about it hurts.”

✍️ and 📸 by Abubaker Abed

[lailoken]

No too long ago, I was able to visit the small lake town my mother grew up in for the first time. It was a really lovely trip that included a number of particularly special experiences, which included locating the burial plot for the ancestral line I most directly associate with my hereditary magical practices.

Beyond the awe of being with these beloved dead so presently for the first time, I was also really amazed and humbled to see the botanical company they kept. Along with Lily of the Valley growing amidst their graves, the Family Stone was directly beneath a gigantic old Maple Tree with a perfect hollow for leaving offerings.

What's more, however, the grave plot was directly triangulated by three very special trees.

At one "point" of the triangle resides one of the most massive Birch trees I've ever encountered. I genuinely didn't even think they got this big as singular trunks (I've included a picture of my very tall and broad husband standing next to it for reference). Birch is also my mother's Patron Tree, and so it has always had a special place in my heart.

At another "point" of the triangle is an absolutely enormous Copper Beech Tree. If the sheer majesty and beauty of this tree wasn't already enough, there's also the fact that Beech trees have taken up a role of greater importance in my practice, due to syncretic ties I have built with Saint Joan of Arc in my Faerie Physic work over the last year.

At the final "point" of the triangle, I was most blown away to discover a "Flying Rowan" growing from the crevice of an old Maple. In traditional anglo-celtic folklore, a Rowan tree that has managed to take root and grow successfully without actually being in the ground—such as a sapling that grows from the face of a boulder or the nook of an established tree—is often called a Flying Rowan. I learned, growing up, that said Rowan trees are potent sources of magic, as well as marking areas that are sacred to the Fae. As such, finding one so close to my ancestral burial plot felt extremely meaningful and auspicious. I was even lucky enough to find a couple handfuls of fallen berries that I took back home with me.

Being able to visit and propitiate the graves of my progenitors and their loved ones was a deeply sacred act for me, and I feel blessed that I can bear witness to the beauty and peace of their resting place.

[datcloudboi]

List of Video Games Turning 10 Years Old in 2024

Alien: Isolation

Assassin's Creed: Rogue (the one where you play as an Assassin turned Templar.)

Assassin's Creed: Unity (the one set during the French Revolution.)

Atelier Escha & Logy: Alchemists of the Dusk Sky

Azure Striker Gunvolt

The Banner Saga

Bayonetta 2

The Binding of Isaac: Rebirth

BioShock Infinite: Burial at Sea (the DLC where you go back to Rapture)

A Bird Story (a sort of spin-off of "To the Moon")

BlazBlue: Chrono Phantasma

Borderlands: The Pre-Sequel! (is this a sequel to 1 or a prequel to 1? I forgor)

Bravely Default (in North America)

Broken Sword 5: The Serpent's Curse

Call of Duty: Advanced Warfare (the one with K*vin Sp*cey)

Captain Toad: Treasure Tracker

Castlevania: Lords of Shadow 2 (to date, the last new Castlevania game to release)

Child of Light

The Crew (going offline at the end of March)

D4: Dark Dreams Don't Die (a wonderfully strange game from the guy that made Deadly Premonition)

Danganronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc (in North America)

Danganronpa 2: Goodbye Despair (in North America)

Dark Souls II

Deception IV: Blood Ties

Demon Gaze

Diablo III: Reaper of Souls

Disney Infinity 2.0

Divinity: Original Sin (from the team that would go on to make Baldur's Gate 3)

Donkey Kong Country: Tropical Freeze

Dragon Age: Inquisition (the winner of GOTY at the very first TGAs)

Drakengard 3

Earth Defense Force 2025 (EDF! EDF! EDF!)

The Evil Within (from the creative director of Resident Evil)

Fable Anniversary

Fairy Fencer F

Far Cry 4

Freedom Planet

Guilty Gear Xrd Sign

Hyrule Warriors

Inazuma Eleven (in North America. And digital only.)

Infamous: Second Son (as well as its expansion, First Light)

Kirby: Triple Deluxe

The Last of Us Remastered (just one year after the original version came out...)

The Legend of Korra (the game from PlatinumGames that you can't buy anymore)

Lego Batman 3: Beyond Gotham

Lego The Hobbit

The Lego Movie Videogame

Lethal League (from the team that would go on to make Bomb Rush Cyberfunk)

Lightning Returns: Final Fantasy XIII (the third and final chapter of the Final Fantasy XIII trilogy)

Lisa: The Painful (yes, really)

LittleBigPlanet 3

Lords of the Fallen (not to be confused with Lords of the Fallen, which came out in 2023)

Mario Golf: World Tour

Mario Kart 8 (the original version)

Metal Gear Solid: Ground Zeroes (the prologue to Metal Gear Solid V: The Phantom Pain, which came out 18 months later)

Middle-Earth: Shadow of Mordor

Might & Magic X: Legacy

Murdered: Soul Suspect (it's like Ghost Trick: Phantom Detective, but not as good)

Natural Doctrine

Oddworld: New 'n' Tasty! (a from the ground up remake of the first Oddworld game from 1997)

Pac-Man and the Ghostly Adventures 2 (yes, it got a sequel. I don't know how or why.)

Persona 4 Arena Ultimax

Persona Q: Shadow of the Labyrinth

Pokemon Omega Ruby & Pokemon Alpha Sapphire

Professor Layton and the Azran Legacy (the last time that Professor Layton himself was the protagonist. At least, until the New World of Steam comes out)

Professor Layton vs. Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney

Pushmo World

Risen 3: Titan Lords

Sacred 3

Samurai Warriors 4

Shadowrun: Dragonfall

Shantae and the Pirate's Curse (the 3rd one)

Sherlock Holmes: Crimes and Punishments

Shovel Knight (yes, really)

Skylanders: Trap Team (the 4th one)

Sniper Elite III

Sonic Boom: Rise of Lyric

Sonic Boom: Shattered Crystal

South Park: The Stick of Truth

Steins;Gate (in North America)

Strider (the one from Double Helix)

Sunset Overdrive

Super Smash Bros. for Wii U and Nintendo 3DS (or Smash 4 for short)

Tales of Xillia 2

Tales of Hearts R

The Talos Principle

Theatrhythm Final Fantasy: Curtain Call

Thief (the reboot)

This War of Mine

Toukiden: The Age of Demons

Transformers: Rise of the Dark Spark (this game merged the storyline of the War for/Fall of Cybertron games with the storyline of the Michael Bay movies. I’m not joking)

Transistor

Valiant Hearts: The Great War

The Vanishing of Ethan Carter

The Walking Dead: Season Two

Wasteland 2

Watch Dogs

The Witch and the Hundred Knight

The Wolf Among Us (sequel this year!)

Wolfenstein: The New Order

Yaiba: Ninja Gaiden Z

Yoshi's New Island

[moviesludge]

the improv troupe has invaded your ancestors' sacred burial grounds

[thenuclearmallard]

"Native smile from a Khanty girl,

Khanty Mansia, Northwest Siberia

The Khants are indigenous to north-west Siberia in the Khanty-Mansi and Yamal-Nenets Autonomous Districts that are located in the Tyumen region of the Russian Federation.

They are calling themselves Khanti, Khande, Kantek (Khanty) which is derived from the combination "Khondy-Kho" (in the Khant language "man from the river Konda") and it has also been explained as meaning "Khan (King) people" and connected with the name of the ancient Huns.

(Milittary expeditions by the Russians took place in the 16th century, so they also started to strengthen their power over the Khants' lands.

The Khant elders managed to retain their position and began to collect tribute from their subordinates. Gradual Christianization continued. The Khants have officially been regarded as 'Christians' since the year 1715 after the extensive baptisms of monk Fyodor. Nevertheless, the ancient spiritual belief of their forfathers ('shamanism') have persisted, even to this day.

The Khants were also economically subjugated. With the help of liquor the Khants were commercially exploited by Russian traders eager for cheap furs. The predatory policy of Russian merchants and officials was so efficient that by the end of the 19th century the Khants, harassed by economic difficulties, were broken and close to ruin. The colonizers had seized their best lands as well as their incomes, and had brought along dangerous diseases and destructive habits (liquor being the biggest curse). It was commonly thought that the Khants would survive for no more than a couple of decades...

The arrival of Soviet power was accompanied by great promises and expectations for the Khants and other northern peoples. In 1925 a Northern Committee was founded with the intention of leading the Khants, Mansis and Nenets along the road of progress. In 1930 the Ostyak-Vogul National District (renamed in 1940 the Khanty-Mansi National District) was formed. This new life was no less disturbing to the Khants, causing only fear and bewilderment. The establishment of collective farms followed accompanied by severe repressions. By attacking the traditions of the people the new ideology of communism incited the persecution of shamans and the destruction of sacred groves and burial grounds. Khant children were forcibly removed to boarding schools. The largest outburst of resistance, led by the elders, became known as the Kazym rebellion. The opposition was ferociously suppressed by the Soviet-Russian army;

Khant villages were burnt and much of that connected with the culture of the Khants was destroyed altogether. Cultural centres and 'red tents' were built to propagate the Soviet way of life and its accompanying customs. From then on, anyone who took part in the customary bear funeral rites could be subject to ten years' imprisonment. Bear hunting was also forbidden. (The Bear Celebration is being celebrated occasionally after a successful hunting of a bear. The bear celebration continues 5 or 6 days. Over 300 songs and performances occur during a Bear Celebration)

In the 1950s and 60s the Soviet-Russians discovered vast gas and oil reserves in western Siberia. The Khants, hardly recovered from the blows of communism, now found themselves at the mercy of technocrats. The piratic economy has been ruthless and greedy. Oil has polluted pastures and waters once filled with fish, the gas and oil lines have blocked the paths of the reindeer, wildfires have destroyed forests.

Still, every year 20,000--25,000 tons of oil pollutes the soil, spilled in technical failures (at least one accident every three days). 50 % of the natural gas is simply consumed in senseless burning brands. Industrial pollution reduces the fishing grounds by about 10,000 hectares every year. In the district of Nizhnevartovsk alone a fire destroyed 260,000 hectares of forest in 1989. At the same time there has been an explosive increase in population (mainly due to urban migration). In 1969, 289,000 inhabitants lived in the Khanty-Mansi Autonomous District, by 1979 the number of inhabitants was already 596,000 and in 1989, 1,268,000 (a growth of one million in 20 years). The frailty of the northern biosphere and its resources has been totally ignored.

The overwhelming pressures of industry and alien ways of life have cast doubt on the further existence of the Khants as a nation. As early as the 19th century, M. A. Castrén and K. F. Karjalainen were recommending that the Khants should be educated in a native spirit and in native surroundings, teaching them to respect their people and customs. In fact, the authorities have "developed and raised" the level of the Khant's economic and cultural life but taking into consideration only the authorities' own needs. This has deprived the Khants of any self-confidence of determination and furthered their decline.

Economic, cultural and linguistic discrimination of the Khants has taken the form of public harassment. They are referred to as dogs, and derisive remarks are made about their dark skin. They are not allowed to work in the mines in case "they break something" or "earn too much". The rapid regression in the living conditions of the Khants is reflected in the decline of industry and in heavy drinking which has an all too common tendency to lead to suicide...)"

[phoenixyfriend]

Love it when the current events on the news are complicated on a moral level and you know the Correct Answer According To The Echo Chamber, but you also are the kind of person who has to break things down to the smallest level. [Sarcasm]

Please be civil, I'm not trying to convince people of anything, I'm trying to break down my own feelings on this and figure out what, if any, resolution it could have.

So the thing is

Some people would like to have their ashes buried on the moon.

There are reasons to dispute this, but ngl if we're gonna do space exploration, then subsidizing it through the vanity project that is having your ashes sent to the big rock in the sky seems like a relatively efficient way to fundraise.

However. The Navajo nation is asking that human remains not be placed on the moon because it is sacred to them and other indigenous peoples.

Which is fair, I understand them being upset, but...

Unlike specific mountains or lakes or even the entire continent of the Americas

The moon is. Everyone's.

The moon does not and should not belong to any one community.

The question becomes, does one community's claim over a celestial object hold more weight than another's?

It's not that other communities have a sacred history OF burying ashes, so the request isn't hurting anyone, but what about precedent? If a moon colony is set up, will deaths on the moon be expected to result in shipping bodies back to earth for burial? If the colony exists, how many bodies might that eventually be?

And just the general question of, like, what about other cultures that involve the moon in their religion? What if "joining the moon" is something a person views as achieving a oneness with THEIR moon god? If someone from China wants to do this in honor of Chang'e, or a Greek person for Artemis, or a Zulu person for iNyanga, or a Japanese person for Tsukuyomi, etc etc

Then where does that balance lie?

This isn't land that was stolen, it's the MOON.

I don't imagine it would be a COMMON choice (see: cost), but it's not unimaginable that someone would ask to do this out of a GENUINE religious or spiritual devotion to the moon or associated deity.

But there's a history of disrespect to indigenous culture's sacred places, especially in the Americas, and it's PROBABLY not like the rich individuals paying a private company to get their ashes up on the moon are doing it out of devotion to a moon god.

So in this case it would be putting the individual wants of a wealthy person above the cultural practices of many people.

But in the long run... What do we expect to come of it? What are the consequences of precedent? The rights of individuals need to be protected even when the individual is shit, but the rights of marginalized communities can't get dropped by the wayside on the way.

IDK

I don't know how to feel about it, it's complicated. I'm trying to relate it back to something personal that I DO have similar feelings about, but everything comparable (e.g. the Hagia Sofia situation) is very grounded in "it was ours first" so like. Yeah. That approach isn't working.

Nobody in the news I'm following has really explored it, just dropped a mention of it and moved on.