candidfolderss

[munefille]

what abt reader creating a long cardigan for your angel-like oc, because they don't want him/them to be cold!! You can make this the same reader who baked for the oc

i hope ur okay with a sketch I feel like this sums it up better than what I could write :')

[prokopetz]

Tumblr word of the day:

lasslorn (adjective; not comparable)

From lass +‎ lorn.

(obsolete) Forsaken by one's lass or mistress.

[markantonys]

idk what it is but something about the particular Lanfear Resurrection Music that plays in the first and last scenes of 2x04 just sounds to me so much more like a sci-fi soundtrack than even the rest of the show's non-traditional-fantasy soundtrack, which is so fitting for the forsaken. lorne balfe's done it again!

[lowlyroach]

1284) Sanguine suicide

Oppositional conscious

Uprooted tenderness

Boulder of acclivity

Gravitational incongruity

Consistently auxiliary

Articulated as

Perpetually intricate

A revolving cusp

Of the grim auspice

& sanguineous palms

A derisive blattodea

A calamitous culicidae

Waning lampyridae

Flickers unrequited

Abandon coevality

Forsaken & rancorous - the Cotinis nitida

Lorn is the photinus

For the lucid contaminant

Of the hypnotic photuris

Ensared - enchanted reverie

Sanguinely spellbound

Recreant re-emergence

Mournful subversions

Witless - glutted

Bewitching spotlight

Contemptible as an accessory

Repulsive vainglory

Inebriate malefactor

Futile confliction

Scornful elucidation

Orbit invocation

Perennial transience

Peripheral embrace

Avaricious apocalypse

Personify the carrion

Husk of cordyceps

Bloated blattodea

Suicide by exsanguination

[springyearning]

Prayer Whispered in a Burning Church

[poem text: here's a thought: i don't think Isaac ever saw abraham the same when they came down from that mountain. not when that knife almost kissed his skin and he realized his father feared God more than he loved his son.

i think i understand, though, because despite these hands stained with ash and prayer, throat cracked raw with smoke and violent devotion, my Father never looked me in the eye either. & isn't that the real tragedy? breath full of holy light, maybe, but light like a forest fire.

i tell myself i'll make it to tomorrow, but that would take some life-lorn miracle; & i never stopped believing in God, but i think God stopped believing in me.

the walls creak with tears of wax and glass, crumbling under cross and confession. charred skin, forsaken thing; not even begging will save you now.

i hear my Father sing. i hear him pick up the knife.]

[bbael]

Thinking of lorn my lovely and forsaken werewolf oc :(🩷

[stargazer1682]

Wesley's Price

Each of the members of Angel Investigations team got something out of their agreeing to take over Wolfram and Hart - Angel was able to give his son the life he deserved, Fred was given access to every cutting edge piece of science her enormous brain could think of. Lorne could rub elbows with the glitterati. Gunn was given the opportunity to be more than just the muscle. There was a time being the muscle was enough; when he was the leader of his own team, and his ingenuity and determination helped protect those who society had forsaken. But he had since move on from leader to follower and while he had lost track of all the good he had done as a result, he couldn't help feel like he had faulted; that he had lost the mission somehow. Or his role in it had become less clear. Because he didn't have a brain for monsters and spells or for science. Yet Wolfram and Hart offered him the chance to be something more, something important. Wolfram and Hart was a lot of things, but first and foremost, it was a law firm; and none of them were lawyers - but he could become one. At least, that's what the cat promised him; and for some reason he felt he could believe it.

And then there's Wesley. He was given a rather nice pen. Sterling silver, nice grip. They told him the ink would never run out, and he had no doubt about that. Sometimes though it came out red, which he found unsettling, because he knew what it was and where it must have come from. Though what probably unsettled him most, though he couldn't be sure it wasn't his imagination, there were times when this happened, when the ink was especially red, that he could have swore he felt a couple of pricks around his throat, just in the area of the scar. There were never any visible signs of irritation during or after, but still, it made him wonder. Of course, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce didn't sign on to work for Wolfram and Hart for a pen that wrote in his own arterial blood; no matter how nice it was or that it had his name etched in it. No, there was something else he had been offered; or rather, something he offered them. Once the stakes had been made clear, the rules of the game as it were, he didn't really have much of another choice; not after he'd gone to all that trouble to - how did she put it? "Die Hard" his way into the records of Wolfram and Hart. Wesley might have thought a Bond comparison would have been more flattering, but still, he appreciated the comparison to the dashing action protagonist.

She looked good, he thought, as he stood on the sidewalk, trying to look inconspicuous. The sunlight was streaming, almost starting to set just behind her as she was… doing what? Handing out orange slices, it appeared, to a team of hungry young soccer players. Wesley stifled a laugh. Lilah had never struck him as the domestic type, and yet, here she was. "One at a time," she told the children, in a tone of authority that Wesley associated more with the Lilah he knew.

Lilah looked up to see a man walking towards her, with a bemused look on his face. She'd never seen him before; was fairly certain he wasn't one of the kids parents - although a couple of the moms, and the dads for that matter were no strangers to the dating scene; and this could well be one of their latest flavor of the month. She could see the appeal, he had a subtle roguishness about him; like if Indiana Jones' day job was as a librarian or something. Still, for all she knew he could be a creep who had no legit reason for being there. She noticed he was getting closer and his grin seemed to be getting wider as he approached. "Can I help you?" She asked. "It was a wonderful game." He said. "With a baritone, English accent," Lilah thought, as she felt a smirk of her own cross her lips. She told herself, her wife would disapprove of her bringing him home. And she still didn't know what he wanted. "I'm afraid the oranges are just for the kids." she said, wryly. "Oh, no, I'm sorry, I've neglected to introduce myself," the man started; with, Lilah noted, a charming stuttering befuddlement. "I'm uh… I'm… from your team's sponsor." Lilah set down the knife she was using to cut oranges and was quick to shake his awkwardly extended hand. "Oh, of course. Um…Wolfram and… uh…" "Hart," the man finished with a large smile. "Right. But spelled like the deer?" "Yes, that's the one." "Well, in that case you definitely deserve an orange slice," Lilah told him, offering him a piece of fruit. "Oh, no, I couldn't; it's for the kids." "It's the least I can do after your generous donation. The kids love soccer. Or should I call it "football"?" The man laughed a half-hearted, awkward, yet charming laugh as he agreed with her. "No, no, our firm was… more than happy with the arrangement. It was… an equitable trade." Lilah noticed he seemed to have dropped the more lighthearted demeanor and had a more serious look about him as he looked at her before forming his next question. "Are you?" "Am I…. what?" Lilah asked, confused. "Happy? Are you… happy?" It was such a strange question, and coming from a stranger; yet the strangest thing Lilah found about the question was her desire to answer him. "Yes," she replied, wholeheartedly and honestly. "I think so. You know, for about a week in college I thought about becoming one of you." He seemed confused. "One of me?" "A lawyer? I thought about going to law school, but… I don't know. Plans change and here we are." "Yes… funny how things turn out." Just as the man appeared to be readying himself to say more, one of the girls from Lilah's team ran up to her; her arms stretched out for a hug. Lilah scooped her up and swung her around, as her daughter squeezed her tight. "Mom, are we going to go now? Mama says the rest of the kids have been picked up." "Soon, honey. First I have to pack up the oranges, then we can get going." "Okay," said the girl, who turned to Wesley and asked, "who are you?" He appeared stunned and stammered a bit, as Lilah chimed in. "This nice man was one of the people who helped buy your new uniforms. Can you say 'thank you'?" The girl rushed up to him and gave him a hug and squeaked, "Thank you," before running off in the direction of another woman." The man was smiling again. "That was your daughter?" "Yes, her name is Lesley." If Lilah didn't know better, she'd swear his smile got bigger. "I'm sorry, I don't think I caught your name." "Uh… Pryce. Mr. Wyndham-Pryce." Lilah started packing everything up, so as not to keep the wife waiting. "Well, it's nice to meet you Mr. Wyndham-Pryce. I might have simplified it to Lesley, but you did so much more than just buy uniforms. As far as I'm concerned, you're an angel…" Lilah looked up from her packing, intending to look him in the eyes - those strangely familiar, dreamy eyes - but he was gone; without a sound and without a trace. She wondered if she she might seem him again.

[michaellornemiller]

The Walking Dead

The Walking Dead

the pain I feel

takes breath from me

future of darkness

is all I see

I am a zombie

I died years ago

what you see

is my tortured soul

there is no color

my eyes have been taken

all hope it's gone

my soul is forsaken

death would be a gift

I will never receive

among The Walking Dead

I will forever be

I am soulless

on my belly I crawl

I am the most deserving

Walking Dead of all

I hate life

hate myself as well

my sentence is

forever in hell

author Michael Lorne Miller

[blacksails2017]

the wheel of time album that was just released did not have to go that hard but holy shit does it perfectly encapsulate sounding both futuristic and ancient !!! and the fact that all of the lyrics are in the old tongue 😮‍💨🤌

[mxmeiyun]

My take-home final exam was supposed to start today, but we got an email from the professor at 5 AM saying he'd need another day or two to finalize the exam, so he'd also be extending the deadline accordingly.

My, my. How the tables have turned.

[105nt]

Ink Black Heart research dump

Chapter Six - Epigraph

Properzia Rossi by Felicia Hemans

Felicia Hemans is the author of the openings “The boy stood on the burning deck” (from Casabianca) and “The stately homes of England” (from The Homes of England) neither of which I like at all, but Properzia Rossi is a doozy. The thoughts of supposedly heart-broken sculptor Properzia de’ Rossi (1490-1530), a self-taught artist from Bologna, famous for carving fruit stones amongst other things, as she creates her last sculpture. It is possibly based on this painting by Louis Ducis (1775-1847) which “represents her showing her last work, a basso-relievo of Ariadne, to a Roman Knight, the object of her affection, who regards it with indifference”.

She does seem a little scantily dressed for chisel work.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Properzia_de%27_Rossi

http://digital.library.upenn.edu/women/hemans/records/rossi.html

I have had a really good time finding all this out and I have learned two new words: ekphrasis =  a vivid, often dramatic, verbal description of a visual work of art, either real or imagined, and caesura =  a pause near the middle of a line of poetry.

 It’s long ...

Tell me no more, no more

Of my soul's lofty gifts! Are they not vain

To quench its haunting thirst for happiness?

Have I not lov'd, and striven, and fail'd to bind

One true heart unto me, whereon my own

Might find a resting-place, a home for all

Its burden of affections? I depart,

Unknown, tho' Fame goes with me; I must leave

The earth unknown. Yet it may be that death

Shall give my name a power to win such tears

As would have made life precious.

I.

ONE dream of passion and of beauty more!

And in its bright fulfillment let me pour

My soul away! Let earth retain a trace

Of that which lit my being, tho' its race

Might have been loftier far.–Yet one more dream!

From my deep spirit one victorious gleam

Ere I depart! For thee alone, for thee!

May this last work, this farewell triumph be,–

Thou, lov'd so vainly! I would leave enshrined

Something immortal of my heart and mind,

That yet may speak to thee when I am gone,

Shaking thine inmost bosom with a tone

Of lost affection;–something that may prove

What she hath been, whose melancholy love

On thee was lavish'd; silent pang and tear,

And fervent song, that gush'd when none were near,

And dream by night, and weary thought by day,

Stealing the brightness from her life away,–

While thou–Awake! not yet within me die,

Under the burden and the agony

Of this vain tenderness–my spirit, wake!

Ev'n for thy sorrowful affection's sake,

Live! in thy work breathe out!–that he may yet

Feeling sad mastery there, perchance regret

Thine unrequited gift.

II.

It comes,–the power

Within me born, flows back; my fruitless dower

That could not win me love. Yet once again

I greet it proudly, with its rushing train

Of glorious images:–they throng–they press–

A sudden joy lights up my loneliness,–

I shall not perish all! The bright work grows

Beneath my hand, unfolding, as a rose,

Leaf after leaf, to beauty; line by line,

I fix my thought, heart, soul, to burn, to shine,

Thro' the pale marble's veins. It grows–and now

I give my own life's history to thy brow,

Forsaken Ariadne! thou shalt wear

My form, my lineaments; but oh! more fair,

Touched into lovelier being by the glow

 Which in me dwells, as by the summer-light

All things are glorified. From thee my wo

 Shall yet look beautiful to meet his sight,

When I am pass'd away. Thou art the mould,

Wherein I pour the fervent thoughts, th' untold,

The self-consuming! Speak to him of me,

Thou, the deserted by the lonely sea,

With the soft sadness of thine earnest eye,

Speak to him, lorn one, deeply, mournfully,

Of all my love and grief! Oh! could I throw

Into thy frame a voice, a sweet, and low,

And thrilling voice of song!–when he came nigh,

To send the passion of its melody

Thro' his pierced bosom–on its tones to bear

My life's deep feeling as the southern air

Wafts the faint myrtle's breath,–to rise, to swell,

To sink away in accents of farewell,

Winning but one, one gush of tears, whose flow

Surely my parted spirit yet might know,

If love be strong as death!

III.

Now fair thou art,

Thou form, whose life is of my burning heart!

Yet all the vision that within me wrought,

 I cannot make thee! Oh! I might have given

Birth to creations of far nobler thought,

 I might have kindled, with the fire of heaven,

Things not of such as die! But I have been

Too much alone; a heart, whereon to lean,

With all these deep affections that o'erflow

My aching soul, and find no shore below,

An eye to be my star; a voice to bring

Hope o'er my path like sounds that breathe of spring,

These are denied me–dreamt of still in vain,–

Therefore my brief aspirings from the chain,

Are ever but as some wild fitful song,

Rising triumphantly, to die ere long

In dirge-like echoes.

IV.

Yet the world will see

Little of this, my parting work, in thee,

 Thou shalt have fame! Oh, mockery! give the reed

From storms a shelter,–give the drooping vine

Something round which its tendrils may entwine,–

 Give the parch'd flower a rain-drop, and the meed

Of love's kind words to woman! Worthless fame!

That in his bosom wins not for my name

Th' abiding place it ask'd! Yet how my heart,

In its own fairy world of song and art,

Once beat for praise!–Are those high longings o'er?

That which I have been can I be no more?–

Never, oh! never more; tho' still thy sky

Be blue as then, my glorious Italy!

And tho' the music, whose rich breathings fill

Thine air with soul, be wandering past me still,

And tho' the mantle of thy sunlight streams

Unchang'd on forms instinct with poet-dreams;

Never, oh! never more! Where'er I move,

The shadow of this broken-hearted love

Is on me and around! Too well they know,

 Whose life is all within, too soon and well,

When there the blight hath settled;–but I go

 Under the silent wings of Peace to dwell;

From the slow wasting, from the lonely pain,

The inward burning of those words–"in vain,"

 Sear'd on the heart–I go. 'Twill soon be past,

Sunshine, and song, and bright Italian heaven,

 And thou, oh! thou, on whom my spirit cast

Unvalued wealth,–who know'st not what was given

In that devotedness,–the sad, and deep,

And unrepaid–farewell! If I could weep

Once, only once, belov'd one! on thy breast,

Pouring my heart forth ere I sink to rest!

But that were happiness, and unto me

Earth's gift is fame. Yet I was form'd to be

So richly bless'd! With thee to watch the sky,

Speaking not, feeling but that thou wert nigh:

With thee to listen, while the tones of song

Swept ev'n as part of our sweet air along,

To listen silently;–with thee to gaze

On forms, the deified of olden days,–

This had been joy enough;–and hour by hour,

From its glad well-springs drinking life and power,

How had my spirit soar'd, and made its fame

 A glory for thy brow!–Dreams, dreams!–the fire

Burns faint within me. Yet I leave my name–

 As a deep thrill may linger on the lyre

When its full chords are hush'd–awhile to live,

And one day haply in thy heart revive

Sad thoughts of me:–I leave it, with a sound,

A spell o'er memory, mournfully profound–

I leave it, on my country's air to dwell,–

Say proudly yet–"'Twas hers who lov'd me well! "

[munefille]

imagine reader combing or braiding lorne's hair (//∇//)

two hours of braiding later...

[viviennehare]

Eleventh Hour

Take this white flag down the street,

Tell the passersby about my defeat.

Show them how my wound lacerate,

That I have lost my bet to cruel fate.

Whisper them tale of a foolish clown,

Who ran after love and left drowned,

Broken and tormented within its soul,

Waited in agony as bane took its toll.

Once upon a time I was madly in love,

Lorn and forsaken by heavens above.

Now I am mere tattered flesh in a rag,

Wallow gracefully in every step I drag.

Don’t turn and wipe the tears I weep.

Go on and leave me alone as I sleep.

Can you hear the song of nightingale,

Gently caresses my demise as I wail?

[xgodlike]

my muse has died, how does yours react to the news? / accepting!

@gazelessmenagerie​ said: Lord Dio.

The salvation of sinners, the Savior of Evil, he had been so powerful and imposing both in might and charisma. His Ideals were as pristine as a cool oasis in the middle of a scorching desert, the divine right to rule over this world had been certain as the day was blistering. So why? Why oh why.. did the Gods curse those born into the misery of cruelty? At the end it was claimed all the suffering would be worth the pain and agony but without their Savior.. what were they to do now?

What was he to do without the guiding hand of his Lord to direct him? The gravity of power and the promise of Heaven pulling those lost souls bearing the scars of their misfortunes upon their intangible essences. The necessary Evils that plagued this world to keep balance, where were they all to go now? Their Leader was the one who brought them all together for a common goal, whether it be for wealth, promise, or faith; it birthed an alliance that had never been done before with such a wide array of Stand Users. The question lingered with only a somber answer bathed in the blood of tomorrow and the days after. It was only the nature of Stand Users to fight as they are drawn to one another through the invisible strings of Fate linking them all to one another..

Without their Lord, all is lost.

Cast away to the shadows of a lonely room, the recollections of their conversations echoed between the shells of ears. The only man that saw any true worth in him, the only person he would gladly give his life for without hesitation, only the silence of his despairing sorrows filled the atmosphere. Heavy with the shambles of his unshakable devotion laid to lorn, there was so little to offer. Blasphemous, rather.. but the least he could do was to offer a collection of food, drink, and a container of blood within the confines of the desolate chambers bereft of the chill it once had. The imposing presence long passed but perhaps it may be so, in the Afterlife.. Lord Dio will reign as he was rightfully destined to.

In time, their paths will cross again, that much is certain but till then; these steps will be his last upon walking through the corridors in a final farewell drenched in a forsaken silence after paying his utmost respect to the man who filled his life with a sense of purpose.

Even the Evil deserve to rest in peace as well.

[michinekot]

Why do you call them lorn ? Is there a story to that nickname ?

I dunno, Lorn once said it means “forsaken” if I remember correctly. I think he found out after a while of having that nickname tho.Anyway I’m surprised you’re asking me and not him lol

[forsoothsayer]

December Matins by Alfred Austin

“Why, on this drear December morn, Dost thou, lone Misselthrush, rehearse thy chanting? The corals have been rifled from the thorn, The pastures lie undenizened and lorn, And everywhere around there seems a something wanting.'' Whereat, as tho' awondering at my wonder, And brooded somewhere nigh a love-mate nesting, He more loud and longer still 'Gan to tremble and to trill, Height after height of sound robustly breasting; As if o'erhead were Heaven of blue, and under, Fresh green leafage, and he would Cleave with shafts of hardihood The mists asunder. Only the singer it is foresees, Only the Poet has the voice foretelling. When the ways harden and the sedge-pools freeze, He hears light-hearted Spring upon the breeze, And feels the hawthorn buds mysteriously swelling. Though to the eaves the icicles are clinging, Or from the sunward gables dripping, dripping, He with inward gaze beholds Liberated flocks and folds, The runnels leaping, and the young lambs skipping, And dauntless daffodils anew upspringing, So throughout the wintry days Meditates prophetic lays, And keeps on singing. Not the full-volumed Springtime song, Not April's note with rapture overflowing, Melodious cadence, early, late, and long, Now low and suing, now serenely strong, But the heart's intimations musically showing That Love and Verse are never out of season. Though the winds bluster, and the branches splinter, He, through cold and dire distress, Companioned by cheerfulness, Descries young Mayday through the mask of Winter. Doubt and despair to him were veilëd treason, Fashioned never to despond, By Foreseeing far beyond The range of Reason. Therefore, brave bird, sing on, for some to hear If faintly, fitfully, and though to-morrow Will be the shortest day of all the year, Though fields be flowerless and fallows drear, And earth seems cherishing some secret sorrow, The dawn will come when it anew will glisten With tears of gladness, glen and dingle waken, Winter's tents be furled and routed, April notes be sung and shouted, Over the fleeing host and camp forsaken; The nightingale ne'er cease, the cuckoo christen Hedgerow posies with its call, And unto glee and madrigal The whole world listen.