#just the canon ones and not graphic

[silver-snow-writes]

I wrote a thing! Happy birthday Tim, have some focus on your mental health spiralling then building back up

[letthesunshinein]

I love Adam Parrish in almost every form but I can’t stand classically handsome blond angelic curly haired Adam?? Like Adam is beautiful and uncanny and delicate and has high cheekbones but also dusty and a little weird looking? Like yes, he is blondish but dusty! dirty! There’s no way this boy can afford a good haircut or product!! I can deal with some wave or even some curls if it’s messy. And yes he would want to look Presentable at all costs when he’s at school but there is only so much one can do when you get four hours of sleep and cut your hair yourself? And yes he is strong from boyds and from being a teenage dude but also this child is malnourished!

So anyways the football bro bone structure and build with the square jaw and the blessed angel golden blond curls need to stop…

[aroaceleovaldez]

full on feel like pjo tv s2 is not gonna hold up so they need to drag as much attention to the series as they can by using nico as a sock puppet w tsats2

im fully expecting the show to go the way of the movies. it doesnt help Sea of Monsters is almost unanimously the least favorite book of the first series. People frequently forget it even exists or what happens in it, especially more casual fans.

Heck, just look at how little fanfare the second season has gotten so far as compared to the build up to s1. I wouldn't be surprised if s2 totally flops. It would be a little funny.

[paintbrushnebula]

drawings of The Boy 🎨

[uniquezombiedestiny]

disease of the body, disease of the mind

[atopvisenyashill]

Fancasts From Atop Visenya’s Hill

-> Patricia Velasquez as Lady Sybell Spicer

[Gawen’s] wife is Sybell Spicer...Lady Sybell's grandfather was a trader in saffron and pepper, almost as lowborn as that smuggler Stannis keeps. And the grandmother was some woman he'd brought back from the east. A frightening old crone, supposed to be a priestess.

[electricxmayhem]

when I was a teen i made up a team of teen superhero oc’s, but in 2024 i’ve found myself more drawn to the adult characters, and two of the dads fell in love

[cosmicheartz]

psst any cotl fans wanna hear my hc that i think most civilization outside of the lands of the old faith is relatively advanced ( think like 1910s-1920s during postgame and during the events of the game mid/late 1800s to early 1900s )

[name-doggo]

My Favorite FF Graphic Novel Trivia is Knowing that the OOS Graphic Novel Canonically makes Raj and Oscar both Huge Idiots due to the Simple Fact they don't know the Difference between a Screwdriver and Knife

[heirbane]

FIMBULVETR: TERNCLIFF'S TERMINUS.

aka: give us a wrap up for werlyt, squex.

Terncliff had been on the cusp of desperation several times before Endwalker. First, when they believed Gaius van Baelsar came to colonize and eradicate the culture and heritage that the cliffside port had cultivated; second, when his towering form disappeared from the area all together, leaving tints of Garlean occupation without the promise of industry and technology. The magitek units had come, providing the men and women with goods and services beyond any they would have been able to harness on their remote stretch of Ilsabard, and then simply disappeared, leaving infrastructure half-built and their people without the skills to finish it on their own.

When Valens van Varro began to encroach upon Werlytan territory, they had well and truly believed it to be the final chapter for their people. Valens pushed forth magitek reapers, shattering windows and crumbling brickwork with ease. He had been the Imperial officer they truly had expected when Gaius came to their shores over a dozen summers prior.

Valens was the shadow they had feared, and the depths of his depravity saw no end, as violent and unpredictable as the waves against its jagged, rocky cliff side. He had come simply to beckon the wolf out of hiding, the greying hound's children puppeteered by their loyalty.

The strings that bound them to the Empire would gather around their throats, a noose made of good intentions and false hope, and one by one the Imperial Legatus strung them up and let them rot.

Gaius had nothing to bury but broken machinery and the echoes of children at war. When the Warrior of Light finally helped him seek solace for all that Valens had done, he felt as if there was just as little left of himself, too.

It came as a surprise, then, when the sky began to fall, that neither Gaius nor his remaining child turned into their own fear and uncertainty. As the remaining villagers began to transform, skin and bone into decay and death, he and his daughter remained.

What was the end of the world to those who had lost all but each other?

The blasphemy that haunts the forestry around Terncliff screams one night, a sound half torturous and half inhumane, a vicious, guttural laughter that those who encountered Valens van Varro could never forget.

It is dubbed Fimbulvetr. It is a beast not to be ignored, a beast borne of a boy who had his orphanage ravaged by Valens' mechanical soldiers. He had lived through certain death once, and when the sky began to turn red, his peers collapsing into frothing, soot-bleeding things, he believed the worst days of his life were returning. He had fled into the woods, running for his life, until - under the full red moon - he came across the skeletal remains of the Diamond Weapon.

Fimbulvetr towers past the trees. They are part machine and part person, as if it had simply began gathering up the scrapheap remains of a Garlean occupation. When not cowering among the foliage by daylight, they are calling out for whoever can hear them, mimicked laughter and scared sobbing on an endless loop.

With little and less experience in combat and the inability to put down a child the settlement had once known and cared for, panic and unrest becomes palpable. Even if those in Terncliff got aid from others in Werlyt, they were farmers and fishmongers - few had ever involved themselves in conflict by choice.

And so it fell to the man who had seen his own children laid to rest. The man that had slaughtered nine throne usurpers. The man who had extended an olive branch on the Empire's behalf over a decade before and now resided, desolate and alone, at the outskirts of town, still trying to pull the gristly remains of his existence from the broken corpse the Empire had left behind.

He had led before. He would do it again - just once more.

In the ensuing conflict between Fimbulvetr and their cobbled together militia, Gaius cuts down yet another malady of nature. Their wounds weep blood-tinged ceruleum: flesh carves away to steel innards. They laugh. They laugh. They laugh, sick and familiar.

Until they don't, and it is just a boy begging as he had less than a handful of summers before: Don't hurt me. Don't hurt me. Please.

When Gaius awakes, the sky is blue and the moon is silver and full, shadowed by the sun. In the moment he had hesitated, a father looking at a son begging to be put out of his misery, the beast had lunged.

He is told the Warrior of Light appeared. He is told the machina melted into boy and then into soot and ash, that - finally, finally - nothing remained of the Weapons in the cliff side.

When he awakens, it is the middle of the night. Allie is asleep at his side. Severa and Valdeaulin are snoring in chairs brought from his sitting room. There are flowers on his kitchen table and meals in his Garlean icebox.

He is glad to be alive.

Once he recovers and is able to walk again, he adds the boys name to their memorial, etched below the name of his own children.

[tigersizedmonitorlizard]

Many people don't realize this, but a lot of things can be true at once. The sky is blue. Blue is relative term, and the sky only appears as such due to the scattering of particular wavelengths, and even then only sometimes. Blue is real and the sky isn't.

See? It's not difficult.

These were the thoughts crossing my mind as I stood in the museum lobby, patiently watching the comings and goings of all the days' attendees. It was friday, field trip day, my favorite of the week! It fascinated me so to see the human children, small and loud and squishy as they were. To think they became the lanky, well-upright things that escorted them around...I couldn't even imagine. It was just like the primate evolution diorama behind the ticket desk, only in hyperspeed.

A couple students stopped in front of me and ogled for a minute, then scampered back to their line without glancing at the plaque. This happened a lot. I liked to think about what my plaque looked like, especially when people came by and ignored it. I pictured it deep back with gold-etched letters, in some neat and legible script. Shiny, despite it all, enough to see oneself in the reflection. And descriptive! Oh, how descriptive it must be, because after all, there was so much to describe. But at the end of the day, I had never seen it, positioned as it in front of my feet.

The crowds thinned as the day waned, and I turned my mind back to the sky, visible in slivers through the atrium. Today it was the same shade as the fish printed on the map someone had dropped on the floor in front of me, although gradually darkening, as it always seemed to when the humans left for good. I wondered, in which direction did the influence run? Did it turn to night for their absence, or did they flee it? Whatever the answer, it was never shared in my earshot. I was simply left to wonder.

During the nighttime, it was always just myself and my security guard. She walked around a lot. Sometimes she sang. I didn't see her, or hear her, very often, but the museum was large and visitors were recommended to set aside three to four hours to see all the exhibits fully, so I understood.

During this nighttime, however, something was different. There was an intruder. I had heard twice the protocol for this, as it pertained to a visitor-heavy daytime, but never what to do if the museum was empty. Or, almost-empty. You understand.

The intruder didn't look human. Too tall. Too long. It paced outside the doors for a moment before seeming to commit, clawing through the glass like it was a well-worn map in a preschooler's hands. The noise was instant and shattering, and segued into the immediate screeching of an alarm, but the intruder didn't hesitate as it stooped through the doorframe and into the atrium.

"Hey, you!" My security guard had arrived and was shouting, from the very opposite side of the lobby. She held her walkie-talkie in such a way that I realized it could, in the darkness, appear to be the form of a weapon. I thought this was extremely clever, and made a note of the strategy for later.

Unfortunately, the intruder did not seem to be as impressed, as it only snarled and spat a little. It reminded me loosely of the ancient reptile statues I was fairly sure lived on the level above my head. Sometimes children carried very small and soft-looking versions of them, from the area they called a gift shop, and they tantalized me greatly. Did they have soft iterations of me? I had never seen any. But if not, why not? What would it take to merit such delightful imitation?

My security guard was backing away as the intruder got closer, predator-slow and breathing heavy. The claws on its hand-arms clicked against the tile floor with what I felt was an excess of melodrama, and it tail swayed hypnotically, oversized scales playing a soft clinking noise beneath the wailing alarm. It ignored my security guard's orders to stay back, to stay put until police arrived, to exit the costume. It just kept walking, and I could practically taste its sense of smug victory.

It broke into a run as my security guard turned to flee, and in the same instant, I heard the sound of dice clattering against tile. 9, said the voice behind my head that was also my own, mixed success.

You and the monster deal harm to each other.

I didn't hesitate. I exploded off the pedestal and into the intruder, ramming it into the self-serve ticket kiosk. The kiosk was smashed beyond repair; the intruder, unfortunately, was not. It hissed and lunged forward, slashing my sides with its claws and succeeding in piercing one of my shoulders entirely before I could bite the arm in question. The sensation was unpleasant and very much irksome. But, nevertheless, fixable.

Within seconds it had slid its claw back out and retreated a few feet, wary now. I was not a threat it had accounted for. I was not as helpless as my security guard who, I noted approvingly, was nowhere in sight. The intruder lunged for me again and this time I was ready, darting to its right and snapping my jaws where I expected its leg would be.

Success! My teeth sank easily through flesh and well into the bone, nearly meeting again in the middle, and the intruder screamed. Loud enough to drown out the still-ringing alarms, and to even obscure the sirens that I assumed were accompanying the flashing red and blue outside the shatttered doors. As the excitement wore down, I began to feel uncertain. This had been very spur-of-the-moment; I had attacked without thinking, already a horrible faux pas on my own part. Perhaps I had also made a grave miscalculation of intent on the intruder's part, and the entity I gripped did not deserve my wrath

[pardon me], I said aloud, teeth still firmly locked in the intruder's leg. [we may have gotten off on the wrong...foot...ah, if you can understand me, stay still. then i will let go and we can proceed with civility.]

The intruder snarled again and thrashed about trying to find purchase to further claw into my sides and tail, which I took as a reassuring "no". It was a crude miscalculation on its part, too, as the struggling nearly tore its own leg from my grasp. All at once I let go fully and then, before it could writhe too far away, lunged in to bite whatever I could reach. That turned out to be its flank; all meat, no bone. I ripped a gaping mouthful of muscle out of its side but it tore itself away and began to flee, limping rapidly towards the doors through which it had broken in.

The doors that were now, unfortunately for the both of us, filling with the silhouettes of police. The lobby was still dark, illuminated only by the car lights outside. I considered for a moment returning to my pedestal, resuming my pose, burying myself back within mundanity. But, no, wait. That wouldn't work. The syrupy, steaming pulp of the intruder that was still sludging out of my jaws wouldn't go unnoticed for long.

I knew what that meant, then. I needed to flee. The police were moving in, only occupied for now by the intruder having gotten its claws on a few of them. Still, I couldnt help but waver long enough to look at my plaque. That tantalizing mystery which had defined me for the years I'd stood. It had to be good. It had to be poetic. It had to speak to my grandiosity, elegance, power, poise.

It read, black letters on a white-beige backdrop, "'Steampunk Lizard' Donated 2008".

Well.

This sucked.

[pasta-pardner]

spotify | the tragedy of the gunslinger: chronicled through rock, alt country, and heavy metal.

[somelazyassartist]

Oh shit I've been out of the TAZ loop for MAYBE two weeks bc I've been temporarily focusing on Dungeon Meshi and in that time nobody told me TAZ Live! in Seattle came out????

[rearranging-deck-chairs]

doctor who not on torrent site yet catastrope

[bijoumikhawal]

Elim Garak 🤝 Hua Cheng

You are really lucky the guy you like is as weird as you are and into the shit that you do, because goodness gracious

[ghosty-schnibibit]

me finishing the new graphic novel like on the one hand yes the art is gorgeous as always yes the chalice scenes were handled well yes the lunar interludes got included in a cool way but on the other hand me looking at ren (and also a bit at taako by proxy) like