#dalla

[herpsandbirds]

Dimidiatus Skipperling (Dalla dimidiatus), family Hesperiidae, Podocarpus National Park, Loja, Ecuador

photographs by Bill Berthet

[askswordfrisk]

A few kids in the Orphanage!~

Here are some of the kids that are in the orphanage! Some of them are friends of Stella and Fara.

Dhara (Aka Hyper Demon Chara): Tall 13 year old who 7 feet all. Plan works… In the end they are alone.

Skara (Skeleton Chara): Woke up in an amalgamate infested AU, DT in air made him come to life.

Dalla (Doll Chara): Was stuck in Frisk body, got a new one after their AU was lost and Frisk’s soul was found.

War!Frisk: Victim of second Monster human war in their AU. What happened would be considered a war crime.

Dusty (Insane san’s Frisk): Never once killed. Dust won’t come off for a strange reason.

Frosk (Monster Human Hybrid Frisk): Victim of a dead end AU. Doesn’t talk, doesn’t walk, doesn’t eat, they need physical support due to their severe depression and lack of care in self care.

All done by the amazing @susartwork bless her! Will have more later when we have a chance. ^^

[wegotisms]

Sweet Panacea (Solavellan Fic)

Another one from forever ago I can't find on my blog anymore. Super fluffy fluff for the dragon age feelies.

AO3 here

---

The cold of the stone floor seeps through the soles of her bare feet, but it is not why she shivers. She feels the weight of the purple bags under her eyes, the slump of her shoulders, the heaviness of her head; her body aches for sleep, and yet she pads silently towards the rotunda, one hand gripping at the fabric of her tunic, the other worrying at a lock of long, blonde hair.

Dalla pauses in the doorway, watching the elf hunched over a wooden table, his head in his hands as he digs through some ancient tome. She shifts her weight from foot to foot and wraps both arms around her waist. She should go. She should turn around and drag herself back up to her quarters and close her eyes and try to forget it. He has better things to worry about than her nightmares.

And yet his name slips from her lips, so quiet she hopes he doesn’t hear.

“Solas?”

He looks up at her and his face falls, concern etched across his features. “Vhenan,” he says, pushing away from his desk to stand, “what’s wrong?”

Dalla whimpers, the words caught in her throat. Tears sting at her eyes and she shifts her gaze to the floor. He deserves better than to see her facade of strength and confidence crumble. She really shouldn’t bother him with this. She should go. But her legs are so heavy and then his arms are around her, and she sags against his chest and the tears come. In one swift movement Solas bends and hooks an arm behind her knees, scooping her up in his arms and carrying her over to the white couch on the far side of the room.

He sits and cradles her against him, his cheek resting on her head, a hand tangled in her hair and massaging her scalp. His chest rumbles as he begins to hum for her, a melody slow and sweet. It is an old elvhen lullabye, she knows. She had sung it for him once, asked what the words meant, but she can’t remember them now, as her tears soak into his shirt, as she clings desperately to him, shoulders heaving. He holds her tighter and she loses herself in him, in his strength, his warmth, the soft scent of elfroot and ozone.

He feels like home.

He’s still humming by the time her tears stop. Her eyes are puffy and red and she buries her face in the soft wool of his shirt, sighs against his chest.

“Ir abelas,” she mutters, pulling away from him. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”

“Vhenan,” he says, hooking his finger under her chin and tilting her head up to look at him. “Ar lath ma.” He kisses her nose and then rests his forehead against hers. “Dirth ma, what troubles you?”

“Mmhmm?” He runs his fingers lightly over her arm, tracing the crimson lines of her vallaslin.

She can’t say no to those dusty blue eyes. “Mnh.” She rests her head against his shoulder and nuzzles into the crook of his neck, her lips brushing against his skin. “I had a nightmare.”

Dalla sucks her teeth, searching for the words. They stick to her ribs, but Solas’ gentle touch coaxes them from her. She wrings her hands in his shirt as the words spill from her lips, barely a whisper. “I dreamt I couldn’t remember her face.” She sniffs. “My mamae.”

His hand moves to her cheek, his thumb brushing across her tattoos. “Can you remember her now?”

She nods.

“Tell me about her.”

Dalla closes her eyes. “She… her hair was the color of the moon. And long.” She brushes her hands down her chest. “She always wore it down and loved to have me braid it.

“Her skin was the color of the earth, like mine. She chose Mythal for her vallaslin, green like the forest, like her eyes. I would trace them and she would tell me old elvhen stories….” She takes Solas’s hand from her cheek and clutches it in her own. “Babae always said I took after her, but her nose was smaller and she had… these big lips and round cheeks.” She relaxes against him. “She was soft and warm.”

“She sounds beautiful.”

“She was. She was the most beautiful thing in my world.”

“As you are in mine.”

Dalla smiles and spreads his fingers, kissing each one before clutching his hand against her chest and lifting her head to press her lips against his. He kisses her back, gently, his mouth demanding nothing, allowing her to melt into him with a soft sigh.

“You will not forget her, vhenan,” Solas says, breaking from the kiss and tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, “I promise.”

“‘Ma serranas.” She pecks him on the nose and settles back against his chest, curling up against him. “Do you mind if we stay like this for a while?”

 Dalla awakens to sunlight trickling into her quarters and she stretches across her bed, yawning and running her fingers through her hair. She doesn’t remember coming to her quarters -- though Solas is stronger than he looks. The thought of him carrying her to bed makes her heart beat quickly in her chest and she smiles. She feels like a lovestruck teenager, but, she thinks as she stands and walks over to her wardrobe, she can allow herself this indulgence.

“Of course, my heart,” he says, planting a kiss atop her head and humming, his arms strong and warm around her, the melody soft and sweet on her ears.

--

She hums an elvhen lullabye as she begins pulling her tunic over her head, but pauses when she notices something leaning against the wall near her desk.

Her hands fly to her mouth. Did he really…? How could he have known? Had he walked the Fade for this? For her? Tears sting at her eyes. She had known he painted, but had never known he could create something as beautiful as this.

The canvas is stretched in an oaken frame and she bends to touch it, recoiling her hand slightly before ghosting her fingers over the paint. The colors, the shapes -- it’s just as she remembered. Dalla is a child again, gazing at her mamae in wonder as she pulls back the string of her bow, as she bends to scrape bark from a tree, as stories spill from her lips.

It’s almost like her mamae was never gone.

Dalla runs from her room, sprints down the stairs and bursts into the rotunda, smiling so hard her cheeks hurt. Solas is standing towards the wall, paintbrush in hand, and he barely has time to turn toward the rapidly approaching footsteps before she crashes into him, throwing her arms around him and nearly sending both of them toppling to the floor.

“Thank-you,” she mutters against his skin.

He smiles and wraps his arms around her, smearing paint down the back of her tunic and planting a kiss on the top of her head.

[asoiafcanonjonsnow]

JONSNOWFORTNIGHTEVENT2023

Day 1: THE HUMBLE CHAMPION🌟

Jeor Mormont

… and saw Lord Mormont, naked and groggy from sleep, standing in the doorway with an oil lamp in hand. Gnawed and fingerless, the arm thrashed on the floor, wriggling toward him. Jon tried to shout, but his voice was gone. Staggering to his feet, he kicked the arm away and snatched the lamp from the Old Bear's fingers. The flame flickered and almost died. "Burn!" the raven cawed. "Burn, burn, burn!" Spinning, Jon saw the drapes he'd ripped from the window. He flung the lamp into the puddled cloth with both hands. Metal crunched, glass shattered, oil spewed, and the hangings went up in a great whoosh of flame. The heat of it on his face was sweeter than any kiss Jon had ever known. "Ghost!" he shouted. - A Game of Thrones - Jon VII "I would not be sitting here were it not for you and that beast of yours. You fought bravely … and more to the point, you thought quickly. Fire! Yes, damn it. We ought to have known. We ought to have remembered. The Long Night has come before. Oh, eight thousand years is a good while, to be sure … yet if the Night's Watch does not remember, who will?" - A Game of Thrones - Jon VIII

Dalla’s Son

"Gods," Val whispered, "gods, why are they doing this?" "Go inside the tent and stay with Dalla. It's not safe out here." It wouldn't be a great deal safer inside, but she didn't need to hear that. "I need to find the midwife," Val said. - A Storm of Swords - Jon X Bring her home, Mance. I saved your son from Melisandre, and now I am about to save four thousand of your free folk. - A Dance with Dragons - Jon XI

[ilfascinodelvago]

Canto l'uomo che è morto non il Dio che è risorto canto l'uomo salvato non l'uomo sacrificato Canto l'uomo risorto non il Dio che è lì morto Canto l'uomo che è solo come una freccia nel suolo L'uomo che vuole lottare e che non vuole morire

[coldraindropsss]

Aemon Steelsong, Tyrion Tanner, Monster

[mundoasoiaf]

"– Nós, o povo livre, sabemos coisas que vocês, os que ajoelham, já esqueceram. Às vezes, a estrada mais curta não é a mais segura, Jon Snow. O Senhor Chifrudo disse um dia que a feitiçaria é uma espada sem cabo. Não há maneira segura de pegar nela." - A Tormenta de Espadas // Jon X

🎨: Walerian Walawski

[benders-back]

HEY CLOWNSSS >:0) I finally got motivation to draw so I GIVE YOU, DALLAS!!

Oh and I got bored so have this speed paint of the whole process. I made it so my brain could focus on it because it was so long, so just keep that in mind.

Uhhh content warnings for crunchy sound effects, kinda loud music, prop knives, possible Markiplier jump scare, fast movements, and fake food idk

Mmmmm I wanna eat the fucking clay food yummy poisoning from eating glueeeee

CREDITS TO THE WOMAN WHO MADE ALL THE CLAY/SLIME FOOD BTW, THAT VID ISNT MINE, THE SPEED PAINT IS

[primepaginequotidiani]

PRIMA PAGINA Il Messaggero di Oggi giovedì, 19 dicembre 2024

[marcopuggini-blog]

Jovanotti Ospite a Belve dalla Fagnani il 17.12.2024 Radio Puggini

[fallimentiquotidiani]

Cosa ho davanti, non riesco più a parlare

Dimmi cosa ti piace, non riesco a capire, dove vorresti andare

Vuoi andare a dormire

Quanti capelli che hai, non si riesce a contare

Sposta la bottiglia e lasciami guardare

Se di tanti capelli, ci si può fidare

Conosco un posto nel mio cuore

Dove tira sempre il vento

Per i tuoi pochi anni e per i miei che sono cento

Non c'è niente da capire, basta sedersi ed ascoltare

Perché ho scritto una canzone per ogni pentimento

E debbo stare attento a non cadere nel vino

O finir dentro ai tuoi occhi, se mi vieni più vicino

La notte ha il suo profumo e puoi cascarci dentro

Che non ti vede nessuno

Ma per uno come me, poveretto, che voleva prenderti per mano

E cascare dentro un letto

Che pena che nostalgia

Non guardarti negli occhi e dirti un'altra bugia

Almeno non ti avessi incontrato

Io che qui sto morendo e tu che mangi il gelato

Tu corri dietro al vento e sembri una farfalla

E con quanto sentimento ti blocchi e guardi la mia spalla

Se hai paura a andar lontano, puoi volarmi nella mano

Ma so già cosa pensi, tu vorresti partire

Come se andare lontano fosse uguale a morire

E non c'è niente di strano ma non posso venire

Così come una farfalla ti sei alzata per scappare

Ma ricorda che a quel muro ti avrei potuta inchiodare

Se non fossi uscito fuori per provare anch'io a volare

E la notte cominciava a gelare la mia pelle

Una notte madre che cercava di contare le sue stelle

Io li sotto ero uno sputo e ho detto "Olé" sono perduto

La notte sta morendo

Ed è cretino cercare di fermare le lacrime ridendo

Ma per uno come me l'ho già detto

Che voleva prenderti per mano e volare sopra un tetto

Lontano si ferma un treno

Ma che bella mattina, il cielo è sereno

Buonanotte, anima mia

Adesso spengo la luce e così sia

[aliceisinchains]

e va bene dire che si è impegnati anche quando non si sta facendo un cazzo perché anche non fare nulla è un'attività importante

considero non fare nulla l'attività più ricreativa

[lycrabustier]

There aren't even that many Dallas Cowboys fans in Dallas.

[aitan]

Chico Buarque "Minha historia", 1971.

Versione in portoghese brasiliano di “4 marzo 1943” di Lucio Dalla e Paola Pallotino (1970).

Qui, invece, potete vederli insieme a Sanremo Chico Buarque e Lucio Dalla.

[beyondmistland]

What do you think changes if Dalla survives giving birth, but Mance Rayder is killed by Stannis’ forces during the battle beneath the Wall?

A couple of things off the top of my head. One, Jon doesn't send Mance to Winterfell, which probably butterflys away the Pink Letter among other things. Two, it might make reconciliation with the Free Folk even more difficult. Dying in battle makes Mance a hero and a martyr. Burning at the stake while begging for his life on the other hand makes him look broken and pathetic. Three, with Dalla around its possible the baby swap between Monster and Aemon Steelsong doesn't happen quite the same way, if at all. Four, Dalla would fit slightly differently into Stannis' political agenda as a marriage pawn than Val. Five, Dalla would be able to impart more of her evident folk wisdom.

Thanks for the question, anon

[jonsnowwesterosworld]

It's a wise woman I've found. A true queen.