#like my ancestor

[babythegod]

[ineffectualdemon]

I really think everyone should find an offline hobby that you can do while listening to podcasts or music

Like there is nothing more centering then listening to something enjoyable while doing something with your hands that isn't endless scrolling

Hand sewing small items or embroidering moss while listening to people chatter about things I don't really care about just to enjoy their chatter is so very grounding

[fuckyeahchinesefashion]

Cnetizens: 'OMG TV shows in the 90's were much better than today''We were so well fed in the past'

[hymnsofheresy]

what are your thoughts on your religion stealing every single one of its holidays from pagans? xo

That in order to relieve themselves of guilt and discomfort, white people create and believe narratives that deprive their European ancestors of any autonomy whatsoever. Casting their ancestors as victims of the church rather than active participants.

[egophiliac]

oh, uh, this...this isn't Silver's backstory after all.

[swampybogg]

[starcurtain]

One thing I wish I'd see more of among Ratio fans is some thought about how he views himself as a teacher.

Like yes, of course he refuses to compromise on the quality and rigor of the education he imparts, and he would find it unforgivably unethical to lower his standards in order to pass more students who had not genuinely learned the material. This is core to his character.

However, as someone who is a teacher IRL, I know the absolutely miserable feeling setting that kind of standard can cause. There's the obvious disheartening sense of disappointment ("Are students these days really not capable of doing the work correctly? Is our future in danger, if this is the highest level of understanding our current generation of students can achieve?"), but even worse than that is the self-doubt.

"Is this somehow my fault? Am I not teaching this material in the right ways for the students to learn? Is there something I could have done differently to get through to these students? Would a better teacher have a higher passing rate?"

We know that Ratio does (or at least did) struggle with feeling inferior to the Genius Society, so I think it is also likely, as much as he absolutely will not budge on his academic standards, that he has doubts about his teaching ability as well.

This is the man who wants to educate the entire world to cure the disease of ignorance, and yet only 3% of his actual students are able to get there. How can someone who gets so few of his direct students to a state of enlightenment hope to enlighten the whole universe? If so few students are successfully learning the material of a given class, doesn't that mean the teacher is doing something wrong?Would a better teacher--would a genius, maybe--not be able to impart their knowledge more efficiently and educate even the most challenging of students?

As someone constantly struggling with that balance between keeping academic standards high while also meeting the needs of today's students, I think the passing rates of his courses must affect Dr. Ratio much more deeply than I've seen fans discuss. I think he would question himself harshly over his class success rates, and I think he must be constantly trying to push himself to become the best teacher he possibly can be.

tl;dr: I hope one day the HSR fandom will stop sleeping on the fact that Ratio is an actual practicing professor who probably has astronomical levels of teacher angst. 😂

[untitled-tmnt-blog]

Rise August 2024

-- Day 2/17: Karai + Ancestors --

Days 2 + 17 of Rise August! Was this a good use of the last 16 pages in my sketchbook? Idk, but drawing little animations with pen & paper is a fun challenge sometimes! This is a redrawn scene, from the season 2 finale.

(Rise August 2024 Masterpost)

[psychotrenny]

The idea that Scottish people aren't British is so ridiculous. Like the entire island is called "Great Britain" and the use of Great Britain in a political sense (i.e. Kingdom of Great Britain) only started when Scotland and England (including occupied Wales and Ireland) became united in a Personal Union after James VI of Scotland inherited in the English Throne. Like there's a good fucking reason they call it the British, not the English Empire. Scots may have been the junior partners in the arrangement but they were still very much active participants and beneficiaries of British Imperialism. Like just ask people from Ireland or India or Aotearoa or... what they think of Scots. Like it drives me up the fucking wall when people act like the Scots were poor innocent little victims of the English and this gets thoughtlessly accepted because your average tumblr user's idea of Anglo-Scottish relations is derived entirely from fucking Braveheart

[cinnamonest]

Something recently has me thinking about medium-fantasy settings (you know the type, blatantly dark-ages-euro-esque aesthetics, vague touches of fantasy and such), with of course the obligatory “village raided by foreign invaders” scenes practically inherent to the genre… how they always take trophies and spoils away, one way or another, and thinking about being one of said poor little war trophies…

You're just some little peasant wife in your tiny little village, that you've never even left in all your life. You were born there and you'll die there just like everyone else, you think, and any world beyond it might as well not exist.

You're only vaguely aware that there are other people in the world — every now and then, traders and travelers come through, sometimes people who look very different from you and wear very different clothes, even speak with a sort of different inflection to their voices. Sometimes you talk to them, listen to them talk about far-off places and people. Their tales and their goods and their very existence as outsiders is the only evidence of a world beyond the village you have.

One day, those traders and travelers start talking about some other group of far-away people. Merely invoking the name puts an unpleasant expression on their faces.

There are bad things that happen in the world. There are whole groups of people, populations beyond your ability to conceive, and sometimes the people of one population fight ones from another, over land or religion or greed or any number of things. This is called a war, and one of those, to your understanding, is taking place in the present, far away — or perhaps not so far after all, as anything beyond your range of sight might as well be another world — between people who are no more real to you than the figures in folk tales.

The other people, the not-your-people people, the bad guys in this particular war — they have to be bad, you think, they're not your people, and everyone else seems to think that that makes them bad, so they must be — are particularly strong. There's just too many of them, those travelers say, and they have better weapons and training and everything else, apparently. Moreover, they talk about them like they're some sort of monstrosities — some say they're so big and strong because they descended from gods or angels, others say their people are the product of humans breeding with monsters, and other such absurdities that you don't know any better than to believe must be true.

The more time goes on, the voices of townspeople and travelers alike begin to talk about the other people with an increasing tone of fear, more tense. The places you hear them talk of as having been attacked and destroyed are towns you’ve heard the names of spoken more frequently over the years, towns closer to your little home than the ones destroyed the month before.

They're going to take over the whole nation, people say — while you weren't aware your village even belonged to a “nation” to speak of — and a place like yours, well, they wouldn't bother subjugating the people for taxing or labor like they do big towns.

If they come here, they'll just take what they want and raze the rest to the ground…

The thought is scary, sure, but it doesn't really faze you. It feels like a fantasy, some story that you know will never actually happen. That's something that happens in other places, not here, not home, the roads and houses you know as if ingrained into your mind and heart. The idea of such a thing just has this inherent feeling of impossibility, the state of the place you know of as peaceful and quiet, immutably so.

But that day ends up coming sooner than later.

You're not actually there when it starts — having gone off to tend to something in the field, as has been your responsibility in your community each and every morning for as long as you can remember — only when you come stumbling back and see smoke in the near distance, do you drop your things and start running.

It's happened before, you think. A few years ago, someone's home caught fire and burned down. You helped put it out then, you can help now, too.

It's not until you come running right up to the little cluster of homes, bare feet pattering on the ground as you just start to think the fire is exceptionally big, that you turn your head and see bodies on the ground. See people running. Hear yelling.

Frozen stiff in panic, you can only stand still as you turn a corner and the picture comes together — there's people you don't recognize, standing over bodies and pools of blood. They look very different from you and any of your people, even down to the structure and shape of their faces. Identical clothes with crests you've never seen imprinted on them.

Everything is big. These people are bigger than yours, standing at least a few heads above the tallest people you've ever known. The horses are bigger than any you've ever seen. They hold big, shiny weapons splattered in blood, a far cry from the sharpened rocks you have for tools.

Most are too preoccupied with the mirth of the slaughter to even notice you. It's not until you see one — you feel as if your stomach inverts on itself as you see a man dragged across the ground and skewered, the weapon running straight through his body — that everything fully registers. You reach up and cover your mouth with your hands, trembling legs staggering backwards. Your eyes follow the trail, up the long weapon and the arm holding it until you can make out just the side of the face of the murderer, shadowed by the sheer brightness of such a massive fire, just in time to see him pull the sword out and plunge it back in a second time, hear the poor victim — you think you recognize his mutilated body, even in the shadow of the fire, such-and-such that lived a few houses away — gag and sputter and flail, again as the sword is pulled out and plunged in a third time, and he finally goes still.

The killer reaches up to wipe the blood off the side of his face with the back of his hand, but in doing so, turns his head just enough that you're in his peripheral vision — and then, his eyes widen and his whole head turns, eyes directly connected to yours. Only a few moments of stillness and pause pass, each of you staring at the other, before the instincts kick in. Yours — inherently aware of how much weaker you are — are, of course, not to stand your ground, but to run.

And you — poor dumb little thing, who has never known anything but the same routine and small little world every single day of your insignificant life, has never had to put any thought into much of anything, has never known what true fear and panic is before this very moment — have no better idea than to run right back to your home amidst the fires and chaos — thankfully the flames haven’t yet reached it — dive underneath your bed and cower. It occurs to you that you don’t know where your own husband is… but even if he were here, you don’t think he could offer you any protection from these monsters. The worst of possibilities is among the first to hit you, and you retch at the very thought, trying to perish the thought from your mind.

You have no other ideas — no other options, at this point — than to squeeze your eyes shut when footsteps hit the floor, boards creaking as they draw closer and closer, making a direct line for where you're very obviously curled up, heart beating out of your chest. You can only squeal and whimper when a hand grabs at your clothes and drags you out from under the bed, the other hand then grasping at your hair, roughly pulling you up to your feet.

You squeal and flail and kick. You keep your eyes closed, not able to bear even the thought of laying eyes on the long piece of metal that you're certain will run you through any second now.

But that doesn't happen. For a moment, he just holds you in place as you thrash and squirm. He says something — a voice so deep and rumbling that it makes your blood run cold — but it's not words, at least not to you, strings of sounds that have no meaning to you beyond the vague memory of once being told that other people in the world don't talk the same as you and your people.

You grunt and squeal when you're instead thrown up and over his shoulder, which harshly rams into your stomach, making you gag. Your eyes open, bewildered and afraid. You kick your feet and squirm with all your might, but a few harsh-sounding words and a smack to your thigh make you go stiff and still with fear.

It's like your weight is nothing, with how easily you're slung around and carried back out. As you hang over his back, coughing from the smoke, you're forced to see the little village street lined with unmoving bodies, some so familiar it hurts, a deep pain in your chest. Your eyes increasingly burn from the smoke, and even though you try to look for your own spouse and in-laws and neighbors, your vision blurs too much to tell.

You feel like you're going to fall, thus forced to cling onto your captor. You whimper as your fingers dig into his clothes, you hear other voices drawing closer as you make your way to the edge of the village — rapidly becoming nothing more than charred, smoldering wood and bodies and blood as the fire reaches its peak — where the others seem to be reconvening. The violence, you realize, has died down, as there is nothing left to kill, and all the things worth taking have been rounded up, and now they're going to leave. Leave the place that is, to you, the only place that truly exists, and go into the void of that which is unknown and unreal.

You say a few prayers in your mind to the guardian gods that were supposed to protect your people — even if they failed, it’s all you can think to do as you’re dragged onto some animal, pulled up and held pressed against his chest, and start moving, the tear-blurred sight of the mass of flames fully consuming the only world you've ever known, growing more and more distant with every second.

[mushroominaforest]

the quality got absolutely demolished, but it’s Saint! I wanted to try my hand at a traditional Celtic style of drawing animals, and since Celtic animals usually have these big tongues I thought it would work well for good ol’ frog scuggo. I tried to turn Saint’s ascension symbol into a Celtic knot, so hopefully it’s still recognizable. :D

[demonslayedher]

Rengoku-san was so, so close to cutting off Akaza's head, yet Akaza still felt more terror about dawn.

[phoenixcatch7]

The One Fact Pact

I want to see a fic where the chain is rigorously keeping their secrets and stories hidden, but they've all learned to trust one another. Like, it's past time they should probably be sharing things because it's beginning to get annoying, they all agree, but it's sorta become a habit by now? They kept those secrets and now no one really wants to share first?

So, to keep things interesting and get some momentum going, they make a deal.

Whenever they come across something that reminds them of their travels, their quest - be it an item, a familiar name, a location - they've got to share ONE fact or story about it.

But only! When they're in other people's time, because otherwise it'll just be a staged tour and one person infodumping and that's exactly what they're trying to avoid (and it won't be a fun competition they can make bets about).

And then either they go through worlds slowly building trust and understanding of each other through a long drawn out and incidental series of tidbits....

Or they immediately get stuck in wild's hyrule for ages.

Everyone's arguing over who the latest ruin belongs to. Time and wind are getting into an argument about the kokiri. No one can agree on the zonai. Wars is taking immense pleasure in pointing out anything someone else might have missed. Legend is resolutely ignoring eventide. Twilight claims the entire faron woods until they step into the hot and humid jungle for the first time.

Wild thinks he's immune because it's his world so he legally can't answer questions, but everywhere they visit there's a piece of his own story in the rubble or on the wind.

Wild: *happily making tea and checking his slate with the other hand* okay, looks like tomorrow we can reach the breach of demise and to new serenne stable. Just past that- Sky: *choking on his drink* the what?? Wild: the breach? Sky, weakly: Why's it uh, called that? Wild: oh, it's an old story. Apparently eons ago it's where a demon godking came up from underground to the surface world... *suspiciously* Why? Sky: gimme the slate. *squinting at the shape on the map*... I can neither confirm nor deny. Wild:... What do you mean? Sky, remembering the One Fact Pact: I can neither confirm nor deny. What's important is that I killed him. The entire chain, variously: YOU KILLED A DEMON GOD?!!? Sky *recalling the hardest fight of his life*: what, like it's hard?

And then he just refuses to elaborate.

[acronym49]

Sunny Appreciation time

(rambling about my wof headcannons in tags below!)

[squoobest]

i should be writing my paper rn

[artsycooky13]

i peeked into the sonic fandom and this dynamic grew on me. also satbk was really cool