#her voice is also very beautiful

[brynnsasha191]

so upon further research, the VA who plays aanya is named zelda ehasz so she's probably a nepotism hire but holy shit it does not matter to me at all. She freaking shined, there was not one scene that aanya was in where she didn't steal the show with how soothing yet strong her voice and dialogue. Our calm and collected queen, ezran's loyal friend, and bad ass archer who could rock katniss everdeen's shit (no hate to katniss)

[deedala]

SHAMELESS CREATORS NETWORK DECEMBER THEME: HOLD

[holmsister]

Don't think this counts as a spoiler as it's one of those background details/extra material stuff that the anime usually doesn't cover so I'm gonna make a post about it for the anime people

Due to elven beauty standards being VERY skewed towards the feminine, Otta

Is as butch as elves can tolerate before they start getting scared.

[stardust-moth]

In order to fully understand why it was so hard for Mike to express how deeply he loves El, and why his speech at the end of season 4 was one of the biggest, most important moments for his entire character, we need to look at not just who Mike is as a person, but also everything that has happened since he met her.

Every single time he opens up his heart to her, something horrible happens to her or she's taken away from him almost immediately afterwards.

1x08; he's an awkward little ball of feelings that are way too big for a boy so young. He makes a nervous attempt at confessing and asking her out on a date; when he can't find words that she'll understand, swoops in for a kiss instead. She lights up immediately and smiles. It's a brief moment of hope and pure happiness. Maybe they can have some semblance of a normal life and be normal kids after this is all over.

Minutes later, all hell breaks loose-- they're almost shot, El pushes herself too far until she can barely move, she's almost taken away by the Bad Men, the Demogorgon appears, and she uses the very last of her strength to sacrifice herself to save him and their friends.

He has to watch helplessly as she disappears.

He spends a year caught between believing she's dead and hoping she's still out there somewhere (but if she is alive then why won't she talk to him anymore...?). Kept silent under threat by the lab, he can't confide in anyone or even acknowledge her existence, not with anyone except those involved... but everyone else is keen on moving on and pretending it never happened. He can find some solidarity in Will, at least, who is in a similar kind of emotional turmoil... but it's not the same and it's not enough.

2x9; he is finally reunited with El, and she runs into his arms like she missed him too. She tells him that all those nights he called out to her, she heard him; she was there reciprocating his feelings the whole time.

In a burst of emotions that he's been forced to suppress for an entire year, he lashes out at the reason they've been kept apart (Hopper), screaming and sobbing. It's a massive catharsis for him, and for once an adult is understanding enough to hold him and not punish him for it.

Minutes later, she is going to go headfirst into a pit of monsters, the place where Mike had just firsthand witnessed dozens of people (if not more) get ripped to shreds only hours earlier, and she is going to attempt to close the Gate-- a feat that he knows may take every ounce of her power, just like last time. He cries. He can't lose her again. She promises he won't, and before she can seal that promise with a kiss, they're pulled apart again.

He has to watch helplessly as she drives away.

3x1; all seems to be okay now. He and El are happily together, and he feels comfortable enough to be playful, romantic, and intimate with her. It's the most emotionally open we've ever seen Mike thus far.

For reasons he can't understand (bc there's no way Hopper explained himself beyond "I'm in charge so do as I say or else"), Hopper is angry about it and threatens to never allow him to see her again: the one thing he fears most.

He panics big time and fucks it up in the process by lying to her. During a frantic attempt to apologize while also abiding by Hopper's rules, he runs into her at the mall. He panics again-- if anyone finds her here, and knows that he was here too, it's all over, and Hopper surely won't hear reason. El dumps him cold on the spot, spurred on by Max and her rebellious attitude (and without any context of course). He isn't given much opportunity to respond. He knows he's in the wrong for lying to her, so what could he even say...?

He has to watch helplessly as she drives away.

It's a hard blow, and he retreats back into himself, unable to get any joy out of playing D&D (which he clearly hasn't lost interest in), back to the deadpan sarcasm and accidentally snapping a little too harshly at anyone whom he feels would take El's place.

3x6; no one seems to understand the danger El is putting herself in. Everyone is berating him for worrying about her safety. He's seen firsthand what these monsters do to people, he's seen firsthand how El pushes her abilities too far. No one is listening.

The words "I love her and I can't lose her again" burst out in his desperation, perhaps before he's even had a chance to realize how deep those feelings run, despite whatever protective walls he's tried to build around his heart to keep it from getting broken again.

Soon after, all hell breaks loose. El is nearly killed several times over, her leg is ripped open, she pushes herself so hard that she breaks herself and loses her powers completely. Her father is taken from her. She's shattered by all of this, and there's absolutely nothing he could do or say to make it better.

She tells him that when he admitted he loves her, she heard him, and indeed she loves him, too... But now she's leaving.

He has to watch helplessly as she drives away.

4x1; they've been apart for a few months, and write letters back and forth to each other. El's letters paint a picture of an ideal new life: she and the Byers family are doing well; she's starting school and it's going well; she's made new friends, she likes her new home, everything is going well. She seems to be thriving. She sounds happy, maybe even happier than she had been living in Hawkins. Maybe Max was right, maybe she's better off being her own person without him, and maybe the respectful thing to do is step back... It's a small insecurity that creeps up subconsciously. In his replies he holds back, afraid of clinging too hard.

Though there's little logic in it, he's afraid that if he tells her he loves her again, another disaster might strike and this lovely happy life she's finally found might get taken from her. After all, that's what always seems to happen when he does.

4x2; after months of waiting, they can finally see each other again. He wears her favorite colors, picks a handful of flowers for her, and falls happily back into step with how they used to be. Soon that same day, however, reality becomes clear and the facade crumbles. People he was told were her friends show up to torment and publicly humiliate her. She had been lying. She isn't happy here, she hasn't healed, she is right at the edge of a breaking point that he doesn't see coming at all. He can't believe she would lie to him, she's not the kind of person to lie... especially not about something like bullying, something that she was always so understanding about with him.

On that logicless subconscious level, he wonders if it's all his fault-- he should have known somehow, he should have been there for her. She protected him from his bullies, he should have protected her from hers. He tries to come to her rescue. She runs away from him.

He's helpless to save her, again.

4x3; after a night to process everything that happened-- and deciding that the betrayal he feels from her lying to him is nothing compared to the turmoil she must be going through right now-- Mike approaches her in the gentlest way possible, wanting to listen and trying to understand. El, however, isn't receptive at all to his attempts at reassurance. She is at an all-time low, she's given up. She believes she is unlovable, irredeemable, a monster, just a thing that doesn't even have those superhuman abilities to compensate anymore. Mike can't believe what he's hearing-- doesn't she know that she's always been so much more than her powers? She's always been so much more than what she lacks in quote-unquote "normalcy"... None of those things matter, they have absolutely no bearing on whether she's worthy of being loved, because he loves her, completely regardless of any of these things. He always has...

El starts flinging his restrained words back at him, the products of his insecurity and trauma-induced fear. That fear takes hold yet again, and he stumbles, afraid of saying too much or not enough, because surely both could result in pushing her away-- she's retreating, hearing none of it; nothing he tries to say consoles her.

Moments later, local police come knocking. She's taken away in cuffs, and she's so broken inside that she won't even look at him when he chases the police car down the street and promises he'll get her out somehow...

Once again, he has to watch helplessly as she drives away.

4x8/4x9; after days of driving through the heat and dryness of southwest desert, having narrowly escaped being shot at with military-grade assault rifles, witnessing the death of and burying a man whose last words were that El is in danger... After watching dozens of people get mowed down by a sniper in a helicopter, and watching that same helicopter be smashed into the ground in a ball of flames...

There she is. Just as powerful and beautiful and alive as she's ever been. When he runs to her and embraces her, she looks at him like she can't believe he's real. She's beaming a smile right from her soul and it's like all the insecurity and self-doubt that have plagued them both just vanish from existence now that they're in each other's arms again.

Like always, however, the universe comes crashing down soon after. Max is marked for a gruesome death and all of Hawkins is in danger. They're miles away and helpless, and the only possible way for El to save everyone is if she goes in alone. She's stronger than ever, but so is her foe. Once again, she descends to face all the demons of hell on her own, and Mike can't do anything.

She's losing. She's choking. She's dying. He's helpless.

He must be cursed. He must be. Being with her, loving her, allowing himself to admit he loves her, it always brings only pain and suffering and loss. His heart is so full that it's aching, it's bursting out of his chest, and he can't contain it any longer.

She's going to die and it's going to be all his fault, because he fell in love, and it's cursed her.

Just before it all crumbles into utter despair, the earnest support from his oldest and dearest friend-- one who's always shared and understood his feelings of helplessness-- sparks a light of hope in him: "You're the Heart." You're not helpless. You can save her.

The words that come spilling out of Mike's mouth are truer than any he's ever dared to speak before, and it's the most terrified he's ever been, but he has enough courage for this moment. Despite all of the fears that have been building, stifling, choking him to death for years-- fears that the light of his life will inevitably disappear again, and there's nothing he can do to stop it-- despite it all, he pours out his heart to her.

He loves her. He's always loved her. He loves everything she ever was, is, and could be. He can't imagine a world without her in it. She saved him, in every way a person can be saved. And he needs her to live. He believes in her.

And it works. It's music to her ears.

[volivolition]

wiggles my fingers at you ouuuu… you want to tell me about solace so bad…

HKJGG wiggles my fingers back lovingly!!! i really do, i fuckin LOVE solace :3 hey did you know i really like making fake skill descriptions?

SOLACE

Follow the north star. Find light in even the darkest places. Cool for: Optimists, Recovering lost souls, Sweet summer children

Solace is the skill you tucked away long ago, at the bottom of Pandora's box. The little one that tells you: despite it all, there is still hope. It needs a lot of nurturing -- and it's far from being the most helpful for police work -- but taking care of it is basically self-care. It enables you to find the glow in yourself that you often ascribe to gold lungs or brilliant halos in others. It encourages you to wake up and watch the sunrise, to play board games with someone you love, to forgive yourself and let yourself be a gentler kind of animal. Constantly looking forward to a brighter future, it also helps shield your morale from damage.

At high levels, Solace gives you a heightened sense of childlike optimism - which isn't always the sense to lead with in this precariously harsh world. Always looking for the bright side will blindside you with naivety. At low levels, however, you may just extinguish whatever keeps your soul alight. You've already lost her once. You may not survive the desolation if you let her disappear again.

[dirtytransmasc]

I need more selkie theon (and asha. I just think that would be a vibe. fuck the greyjoy sigil being a kraken for a moment and let them be seals) content.

like the opportunity to have theon's coat taken by ned when he's made his ward is right there and it is perfect and beautiful and tragic.

and you could build on that depending on the version of the selkie myth/story you're going off of (I personally love the song of the sea version of selkies for story writing). maybe he can't talk without it, maybe he gets sick, maybe his voice has magical properties of sorts.

I have this one concept in my head that I don't have the time to write, but it goes something along the lines of theon getting sick after years away from his coat and the stark kids have to find his coat and drag his slowly dying ass to the bay of seals (cause y'know bay of seals and theon's a selkie so he'll turn into a seal... I thought it was creative).

also, in a lot of versions of selkies, when they get sick, their hair turns white, which is on brand for theon. they're also pretty, their stories are typically soaked to the bone in tragedy, they're normally held captive/tortured, amongst other things, which are also very on brand for theon.

and maybe you get some selkie to selkie telepathy of sorts, so when theon finally enter the water a seal again, asha books it to come find him, cause its been years since she's been able to feel him (I'm soft for them, I will create the most improbable and ridiculous scenario's to bring them together and for them to have soft sibling moments).

all and all, theon being a selkie is something I need more content of, please and thank you.

[sexysilverstrider]

hop and kieran are in the same rival spectrum except on one end he lost hope for a while but then uses his constant losses as motivation to drive himself to be better for himself and everyone around him because his rival is also his dear friend while on the other end he lost hope in the most heartbreaking and humiliating way possible and he uses his constant losses as motivation to drive himself to be better at the cost of his sanity and everyone around him because his rival is a stranger who he thought could be someone dear to him

[zoennes]

13 DECEMBER, 2018 ✧ DONDERDAG, 11:12 ✧ SCHOONHEIDVERSARY

THE FIRST TIME THAT SENNE CALLED ZOË ‘BEAUTIFUL’ (AND ITS SUBSEQUENT PARALLELS)

[lilidawnonthemoon]

[spellsparkler]

the guide...

- the guide : inheritance, correction.

The early-morning sun is soft and pale; it dapples the earth, the muddy ground beneath the trees studded with patches of grass and fallen leaves, and it sets the river glittering. It’s pretty, in a tender, toothless way; Elias, cross-legged on the miry bank trying with little success to strip the blood from her arms, is probably rather ruining that picture.

So it would seem everyone thinks, at least. She’s tucked herself a ways away from their camping spot, around the stream’s bend and behind a dense-grown thicket, not because she’s suddenly grown prim about privacy when washing but because she’d gotten the sense that nobody wanted to see it. Some of her friends are shy. Most of them were still looking very upset and very accusatory about the blood and the corpse.

(Very upset; very accusatory. She isn’t sure who’s going to clean it up – she doubts they’ll let her. She’d meant, at first, to bring some of her blades and wash the blood from them as well as her hands, but Karlach objected strenuously. Elias knows about six things about herself, if she’s being generous, but one of the first is that she knows when not to push her luck.)

She is sitting, legs crossed, in the muck of the riverbank; her ugly, itchy trousers all dirt and filth on the back and ignoble blood on the front. It has stained dark and crumbly as ash; a thick crust all through the weave of the fabric. There is blood congealed, likewise, on her shirt; on her neck; probably on her face and in her hair – definitely in her mouth, from which she has not been able to bring herself to spit it out – definitely on her hands, viscous and clotted and thick as velvet, all up her arms like a dripping pair of gloves. They dried out some between the time she woke up and the time everyone else did.

She’s left it all too long to be removed with ease; it’s curdled into something not quite liquid, so she’s pulling it from her skin in long syrupy strings. It clings to her fingers with the desperation of a suckling infant. The soap might help, but then it would all mingle together, which wouldn’t work at all – she’s left the slippery bar of it in the dirt and is balancing the shiny-damp tin on her knee, streaked with gore. She scrapes the dripping into it from her fingers, lets it congeal against the harsh-cornered metal. Sometimes she drags the lip of the tin up her arms to gather it all more efficiently. None of it works. She’s sure there must be a better way to do this, but with the light of the rising sun the headache is tripping back into fiercer awareness, and it makes it so much harder to think. (A shame, such a shame – in the dead hours of the morning it hadn’t been gone, but it had lessened, drawing back like low tide. Very nearly a very welcome reprieve.)

Her mouth tastes of meat. Her fingernails are gummed up with old blood.

Behind her, footsteps; treading neatly over the muddled ground, over brittle twigs and drab leaves stained yellow with unvibrant death. Elias doesn’t look. She knows who it is. She issued the invitation.

“I have some excellent tips for getting bloodstains out of white fabric,” says Astarion brightly, close enough almost to peer over her shoulder, “but if you asked me here for anything else I’m not sure I’ll be much help.”

Elias looks down; plucks at her shirt, which was, at one point, a dreary off-white, and very hempy and unappealing besides. She wouldn’t mourn its loss if there were any other garments she could replace it with. “No. That’s not it.”

“Intriguing.” Astarion sinks down into a careful crouch, some small distance from her; Elias sets the soap tin, old blood collecting like stale jelly in its base, down on the ground. “What, then? It must be important, if you’re using our little friends –” he taps a sharp-nailed finger to his cheekbone, just below his eye, “– to call me over.”

Elias looks at him, his bloodless face; she knits her blood-gloved fingers; she says, “I didn’t mean to kill Alfira.”

A pause. The river laps at the mud; Astarion, crouched neatly on his toes, rolls his eyes so expressively she can’t miss it. “Darling, save your excuses for –”

“No-one listens,” Elias observes. She watches until his mouth closes. The sore on his lip has gone scabby. The blood under her nails feels sticky and foul. She says, “Astarion. We have killed things every day since the meat-ship crashed and never demanded we absolve ourselves for it – why would I become prudish about it now?”

(It’s a good question. Her point would be stronger, perhaps, if everyone else she knows hadn’t vacillated just that starkly; if she hadn’t waited for help, for explanations she knew that she in her state might not have, and met with only pursed mouths and offers of excuses she did not ask for and did not need.)

(It’s been a strange morning, and that’s by Elias’ already strange standards.)

Astarion looks at her. He says, “You agreed it was the tadpole.”

Elias picks a scrap of blood from the webbing between finger and thumb and says calmly, “I lied.”

(She isn’t in a position to understand much of what’s happening to her, she knows – so when she blinked back into being with blood in her teeth, on her hands, slathered down her throat, she had sat, and she had waited. The sky had choked the glitter from the stars, and morning came, and then instead of helping everyone acted as if they’d never seen a corpse before. They’d given Elias and her body and the blood gloving her hands a wide berth, after they’d stopped threatening to leap to mirroring violence. It was baffling. They acted as if they hadn’t all met with blades whetted – as if Wyll hadn’t cut a worg open with a butcher’s grace, as if the first favour Karlach asked wasn’t neutralising bounty hunters with the aid of spell and steel. They’ve never blamed any of it on the tadpole before.)

(But they’d been so very set on believing it the worm’s fault. Elias knew it wasn’t. But she knew – she knows, though she doesn’t know how she knows – that it’s not worth carrying the point.)

She tells Astarion, “I don’t know why I did it. I didn’t know I was doing it until it was done. Do you understand?”

“Not particularly,” says Astarion. He picks, careless, at a nail. His eyes are easy to track in the shallow parchment of his face; Elias peels another viscid strip of gore from her wrist, just to watch them latch unsubtly on to the motion.

“I went to bed,” she says with great patience, “and then there I was, and there she was, and I don’t know why. Do you understand? Do you understand why I find this concerning?” If this brand of extensively homicidal somnambulism is something she might be prone to, she thinks they need to know – they need to understand – they need to take it seriously. If it were the parasite it wouldn’t have just been her. If it were the parasite, she’d know. But it wasn’t.

She knows it wasn’t.

Astarion does something interesting with the shape of his mouth and replies derisively, “I’m not totally clueless, thank you. What I don’t understand is why you’re making this case to me alone.”

The bloody gunk dripping now from the end of Elias’ fingers is wiped inelegantly against the lip of the soap tin. Her mouth tastes rancid. She can feel blood, dried and clotted, in her hair. It will all take such an age to wash.

She says, “If we don’t understand why it happened, we don’t understand how it could be prevented. It will happen again.”

She says, “When it happens again, I will wake you up, and you will help me hide the body.”

Her headache throbs lowly, the faint sweet hum of pain pressing its distant way through her body. The river glitters so sharply. It feels so busy in her head – so strange and layered – as if this moment has happened before; she presses a filthy thumb to her eyelid, feeling the soft firm gel of it behind the fine skin. If she popped it clean out of the socket it might relieve some of the pressure. She knows she could – she knows she could – she saw what she had done to the young bard’s eyes.

The river glitters. She closes her eyes.

“Will I,” says the voice she was talking to next to her, sounding positively delighted. “What an interesting conclusion you’ve come to, Elias – now, why would I do that?”

It’s Astarion; she remembers it’s Astarion; with the paper-thin skin and the scabbed sore on his lip and the pretty embroidery all along the cuffs of his sleeves. Elias opens her eyes, head tipped away from the glare, and she takes the soap tin from where it wobbles on her knee to set it down in the dirt between them, gore sluggishly rusting its base. She takes a moment to find her tongue again, to secure the wriggling, rancid meat in her mouth.

“Will that do,” she asks, with careful courtesy, “or will you need it fresh?”

A pause. When she looks up she finds him very stark and very still against the dribble-dying mess of the trees; a leaf brushes his hair as it flutters to the ground. She wonders if he realises he’s stopped breathing. Keep at that for another thirty seconds and he’d be risking brain damage, if he relied on circulation for anything more than show.

Elias isn’t exactly the picture of an undamaged brain, of course, but it’s such a silly slip.

Voice thin, Astarion says, “I beg your pardon?”

And that, after this morning, is simply not to be borne.

“So coy,” Elias says, exhausted. “So kittenish. Shall we dance around it? Shall I pretend you were subtle? You know I’m no good at these games.” She’s walking a tightrope inside her own head and she knows she’s going to wobble; she knows the line will go slack; she’s holding on with knuckles so tight they threaten to burst clean through the skin just to get through this conversation and there isn’t time for turn-arounds. Astarion is staring at her with a prey animal’s stillness; a red-eyed rabbit, quivering in place, soft head pulled back with such a rapid snap that no blood need stain the pale pelt.

She blinks. The bard’s blood hasn’t even left her skin, hasn’t even been stripped from her tangling hair.

Astarion is white against the forest trees. He hasn’t yet put on his plush little pourpoint, so there’s nothing to lend him any colour. She watches him swallow, painstakingly manual; he says, voice chalk-pale and toothless, “What tipped you off? Did I smile too much? No-one ever noticed the teeth before.”

Elias taps the edge of the soap tin and then lets her fingers knot loosely in her lap. “The sore on your lip,” she tells him, directing her eyes to what’s left of its mark; bottom lip, in the meat of it, tucked away under the top, right where the canines would rest if they were longer than hers. He must have bitten it through on the nautiloid. She’d chewed her own lips to hell. “You don’t always remember to turn up your collar. You’re too good at standing still, and you look at people like they’re made of meat.” She doesn’t know how to phrase that one better – after all, they are – but it stood out enough, among the rest of them, to make note of. She tips her head to the side, the ache sloshing with the movement like water. “But mostly it was the boar… the intentionality of it. And you didn’t have a pulse. That one is hard to get past.”

Astarion starts. At least this seems to remind him to start moving air through his lungs, again. “When did you take my pulse?”

“After we found the boar,” Elias says, polite. They’d dealt with some gnolls, that day, loud and brutal; Astarion had fallen, and she’d unbuckled a glove and laid a sweat-damp hand on his forehead. Then she’d taken his hand to pull him up. It had been perfectly natural to press a steady thumb to the soft skin of his inner wrist as she did it.

She’d already known, by then. He really hadn’t been subtle. The only reason, she thinks, that she didn’t realise sooner, is that once she would have known immediately, without even looking. Before she broke whatever it is she now holds broken.

“Clever,” says Astarion, with some reluctance, and then nothing else.

Elias looks down at the tin. Repeats patiently, “Do you want it, or do you need it fresh?”

Astarion also looks at the tin. He worries at the scab on his lip. “…Is fresh an option?”

The blood in the tin, cold and coagulated and so long dead, doesn’t look enormously appealing. Elias licks her teeth and says, “Arrangements can be made.” Her hair is crusted to her temple. She twists the twitching shape of her tangled fingers; adds, “I think that we are in the lucky positions to be able to help each other a great deal.”

Her headache is shivering down into the mandible, the joints in front of her ears pinching. Light skips unevenly across the water to rest at her feet. Astarion looks at her for a long time.

Then he smiles, wide and sudden and beaming sharp, bevelled fangs on full display; Elias, too learned in the ways of propriety to try to touch them, memorises their shapes by sight. “Wonderful,” he says, with emphasis, and then, with a conspiratorial bent to his looks, “I wouldn’t have expected you to be so scheming… You seemed so very nearly harmless.” (Elias wonders, briefly, at his definition of harmless; even before last night, and Alfira’s extravaganza of a corpse, she had done violence enough in front of him. Perhaps, she thinks, he means harmless to him.) He smiles wider; his cheek creases lopsidedly with the force of it, crumpling like old vellum. He says, “Good job.”

Elias looks back at him; the paper-pale skin, the delicate points of the teeth. She takes up the pockmarked soap-tin. “I get the sense I’m good at seeming,” she says thoughtfully, and she tips its contents dribblingly into the river, gory dark.

[moth-tea-merchant]

Ever wondered what Zafira sounds like?

Don't try too hard. This will be embarrassing enough for you. Ah, the water beckons! Can you hear it calling for your blood?

Well now you know

[idiosyncraticrednebula]

People who side with Triton and criticize Ariel for rebelling against him miss the whole point of the story. I don't know what it is about Ariel in particular that many people online look for every reason to hate on her and justify everything that happened to her.

[revserrayyu]

One HSR Character a Day Day 41: Serval (aka: revs' favorite)

[fictionadventurer]

"It looked like a good day for setting fence posts, and my mother said so while taking the biscuits from the oven. 'Some morning early, when I can get away, I want you to come with me along the edge of the hill in the wood-lot," she continued. "When the shadows of the trees begin to come down the slope, as the sun rises you feel the turning of the earth. You feel the whole globe under your feet rolling into the sunlight. . . . That's something I found one morning when I was driving the calves to pasture. I've been saving it up for you. I wonder if you've seen a more beautiful dawn in any of the places you've been.'

On my fingers I count the dawns I have seen--memorable, just in being dawns. Sleepy-eyed dawn from the Paris markets after a night of dancing; mist dawn against which I was just to late to see the minarets of Constantinople--all the fault of the stupid stewardess who didn't wake me in time; one startling moment of color on the hills around the Dead Sea before they went colorless in merciless heat; sudden dawn like a clap of light over the freezing-cold Syrian desert. Four dawns in twenty years. No, I do not know dawns as my mother does."

-- Rose Wilder Lane, "A Place in the Country" (1925)

[watchthecandleflicker]

Recent roaming

[anxious-chaos-art]

Hey guys did y’all know that this (fan)art Karina Drawfee made is actually so important to me