#maiden hair fern

[thekeymonster]

Maiden Hair Fern Bunny - Botanimal Pet Portrait

.

If you like what I do, and you’d like to support my artworks, consider joining my Patreon! 🌱

[julesofnature]

Nature's music is never over; her silences are pauses, not conclusions.  ~Mary Webb

[blogbirdfeather]

Maiden Hair Spleenwort - Avencão (Asplenium trichomanes)

Serra da Estrela/Portugal (12/11/2024)

[Nikon D850; AF 105mm Micro-Nikkor F2,8 with Circular Flash Nissin  MF 18]

[publicdomainreview]

“American Maiden-hair Fern Fronds” — one of 15 Karl Blossfeldt prints available in our online shop: https://publicdomainreview.org/collection/karl-blossfeldt-s-urformen-der-kunst-1928

More about Blossfeldt in our post here: https://publicdomainreview.org/collection/karl-blossfeldt-s-urformen-der-kunst-1928

[apilgrimpassingby]

Because RFK pissed me off by saying that autistic children will "never write a poem", I'm sharing a poem I wrote back when I was sixteen.

The Wolf Knight 

It was a fine summer morn a many hundred years ago 

In an oaken glade growing rich with ferns where ice-cold water did flow 

A fair noble maiden of nineteen years sat down in the forest pool 

And bathed her body in the water, so clear and calm and cool 

A wolf roamed by, with fire-lit eyes, and spied her bathing there 

He ran along to a great gnarled oak, and soon off went his fur 

For he was a wolf-man, with the mind of men, who longed for that bathing maiden 

He pulled on the clothes he had laid down, and went to the pool in the bracken 

The girl leapt up, and hid her breasts, and crossed her legs in shock 

For there stood a man, with fine red hair, sitting upon the rock 

His eyes were bright as the burning sun, his face as fine as fire 

She moved slowly away from him, and still he stood higher 

“Do not fear, young maid, for I am a noble knight 

I have seen your lovely form, and your face shining with light 

I will never harm or hurt you, or marry you for wealth and land 

All I ask is your love and body, with an honest, open hand.” 

“Thank you, good sir, although I do not want your gaze 

I love this wood as a private spot, where I may lie and bathe 

In the summer heat, the ice is kind, and the water soothes my skin 

I wish to know of your family, of your lineage and kin.” 

“My family goes back many years, with glories of past ages 

Our battles and deeds are greatly praised in the words of bards and sages 

My house has wealth, and land aplenty, and has been host to the king 

My noble kin are the Whitetree line, and here I hold their ring.” 

“I see you are of good birth, and are a comely man 

And you have seen me naked, surely by some higher plan 

Now that this has happened, I hope to give my hand 

With my father’s word this coming autumn I shall wear a wedding band.” 

And with the reaping of the corn, in his house they wed 

They said the vows and sang the prayers, and the wedding-words were said 

The girl was happy in his house, with fine food and raiment fair 

Her husband took her to the wedding-bed, eager as fire and gentle as air 

One thing lingered in her mind, the many nights he was away 

And when the bed filled her with child, the dread grew by the day 

She travelled ‘round the house and fields, but no mistress was to be seen 

She read through all his letters, but for fidelity they were snow-clean 

Then she opened his secret chest, and released a scream of fright 

For in it the lay the pelt of the wolf, dread singer of the night 

Her husband was a wolf-man, occult terror of wood and glen 

Who clad in fur to become a wolf, and in clothes to turn back again 

She would not live with such a monster, so her maid was told 

To take the pelt and bury it as deep as the veins of gold 

Her knight returned to their room that eve, and searched for his precious hide 

He could not find it in his chest, or in the saddle at his horse’s side 

He turned to his wife and howled at her, to see if she knew where it lay 

She sat upon the bed in tears, and poured out her heart that day 

“My love, my dear one, never would I sleep well 

If at night you turned into a raging beast of Hell 

So I took your skin and hid it, for I was deeply afraid 

Of what you might do to me, to our servants and our babe.” 

Upon a knee the knight went down, and kneeled before his bride 

“I will never wear that skin again, and in a wolf’s body no more I’ll ride 

I shall bury it down and deeply, let the silver turn to rust 

For you are my wife, my one beloved, and in me you should trust.” 

“And from you I’ll never steal again, not even the driest crust 

For you are my husband, my one beloved, and in you I should trust.” 

[searchingforserendipity25]

A Thing That Sustains | @nolofinweanweek

Idril learned to make bread from her grandmother. She was young and charmingly solemn, then: young and sweet enough that her interest in the craft was seen as a precocious interest in maidenly duties, childish and darling. She had no words, then, for the inchoate fear that turned her hands greedy and sparse with the flour.

Elenwë ate only fruits and vegetables, and took as doctrine, as some of the Vanyar did, not to use a pestle or iron pan except on ceremonial days.

Anairë it was that taught Itarillë to make bread in the Noldorin fashion.

Anairë it was that woke her in the mornings of her childhood, well before the Mingling, and joining her small, sleep-warm hand in hers carried her granddaughter and brought her to join the party of ladies that fed the household of Finwë and the princes of the Noldor.

Itarillë learned to make bread from her grandmother. She was young and charmingly solemn, then: young and sweet enough that her interest in the craft was seen as a precocious interest in maidenly duties, childish and darling. 

She had no words, then, for the inchoate fear that turned her hands greedy and sparse with the flour. 

In bright, blessed Valmar, they ground it from the plenty of the land: wild wheat and generous fields of oat, planted not but sowed by any idle scythe when there was a need. The Noldor, more in love with high mountains than holy plains, made sustenance from the castaway excess of the groves that grew plentiful on their land.

They dressed in thick mantles and went early to pick them up Túna's green slopes. Anairë and Indis and Lalwen, all the women of the king's house, the many noble maidens of Noldor half-dreamy still themselves, braiding their hair with ribbons as they went over grass and fern; and little Itarillë was swung between raised hands, and made to learn all the songs of their craft.

Chestnuts and almonds they picked, walnuts and hazelnuts - hazelnuts were her father's favourite, but Elenwë liked almonds best, and wore their blossoms often about her hair, when Itarillë returned from her gathering-walks with handfuls of half-crushed petals to offer her. And Irissë laughed and laughed at Turukáno's face, whenever Itarillë left more gifts of nuts in his pockets without his notice and caused him to accidentally bring them out of his courtly robes, instead of the expected quill, or a very official scroll. Little squirrel-child, she called her, and knelt down to help her count how many nuts she had found this time.

But it was Anairë who showed her how to ground them all, into meal and flour, and how to mix all parts to raise breads to be shared upon Queen Indis's table, given in friendship to the king's household and the king's people, to the princes of the Vanyar and the Teleri or any wanderer that came in for a meal.

Her hands were too small for Anairë's pestle; the hazel tree gave her some boughs, and from them Elenwë fashioned one small enough for her daughter's use. In those days, in that Blessed Land, the trees spoke slowly, with crackling leaves like fingers moving in the wind, and all of them bend their boughs whenever Itarillë found she had a whim for something to eat. 

From Anairë she learned these things: for in those days the Noldor were known and praised for their generosity, and took as much pleasure as pride in it.

-

Elenwë died on the third year of their crossing. For the lack of her hand on the bow and on the pestle, four others died, that might have perhaps lived.

Then Itarillë was well enough to sit on a stool and make up for her absence, as long as the stumps of her legs were wrapped carefully, and she did not expend too much of herself on songs for the raising of bread.

Few maidens and ladies of the Noldor joined their hands and their skills to the choice of the Exiles. It fell to those that came to store and carry and count the barley, to renew the bread-songs from ancient times with mighty urgency. Need made them inventive; all the cleverness that had been used to create sweet confections and cunning layers of biscuits was turned into new efforts.

Itarillë would have been crammed in the warmest tents regardless, cossetted and beloved as she was near the covered ovens. But not even a princess could be left idle in the host of Nolofinwë, and there were never enough voices and hands raised up to work their rations into flat loaves.

The power of making bread was in the sharing of strength. They few who were skilled in it shared it; and when there was enough to share, they invented it, and took it out of themselves in intricate enchantments.

Itarillë set aside the last mittens her mother sewed for her, from the last creature kind-hearted, sharp-eyed Elenwë slew; she stretched her small fingers and set to work on making her mother's last meals.

From Lalwen Itarillë learned anew all the old gestures, pared down by great caution, and how to alter the rhyming of a spell to make the strength and endurance imbued in it last longer; but Lalwen learned more from her. Itarillë's paucity, which had been cheerfully teased in a king's grandchild, grew full of foresight and care.

Itarillë had an eye for future needs, and a talent for perfect measures. For all she wielded no knife or cleaver, she knew well what fed the shared fires her father's siblings tended, on those scant nights when they had meat to eat. Hers was the bread that was dipped on the stew, and eaten to the crumbs; even then, she knew what it was to be grateful to the dead for the right to walk another day through the plains of ice.

Nolofinwë, who did not eat well or much, moved by a fierce defiance that needed no coal to sustain it. Even in the dark terror of their days he praised her wisdom, and stroked with a rueful grief the neat edges of her loaves, learned at Anairë's side, as precise as hers had been.

-

Almonds and hazelnuts were rarer near this shore of the Great Sea, and the varieties of chestnuts varied in Beleriand, but Idril learned them all anew. In Beleriand, nothing was truly plentiful.

It was not easy, at first, to walk under fir and bush, and not cut herself scavenging.

In those days, she was chided for being greedy - it was not just or tolerable to pick too many nuts from the ground, lest the creatures of the forest suffer the lack, and grow scanter and crueller with it.

We are none of us the only creatures with hungry kin in this land, Celebrindal, said Meleth, who first greeted her people by the shores of Mithrim; and Idril, growing tall and taller under the light of the sun, too solemn and too thin, forced herself to let go of what was not her share to take from the forests. If she wept, then, none but her nurse and the forest saw it; and the trees of Beleriand did not speak as easily as those she had known in Amanyar, at least not any language she knew at the time.

They learned the language of the land well enough, and swiftly enough. Ulmo was not kind to their fishermen, but Círdan's people were generous in its stead. Turgon's followers were eager and quick as their lord was, and worked with a will to bring harvests to life.

They made their way to the sea again, there to make a new city of their own. The ovens and storing houses were raised first, on steady, defensible ground, and then everything else.

As a student to the Sindarin land-stewards that joined Turgon's people for love of the forests and secret places, Idril spent many days with her father on the pinewoods of Nevrast, walking deer tracks through mists that clung with a far more chilling damp than any that had risen over the lands bathed by Laurelin.

As their trade routes grew, so too the bones of her wrists ceased pressing so sharply against Idril's skin; even her father, who always went without if any of his people could use his share, grew strong around the shoulders again.

In Mithrim and Nevrast, the last maidens of the Noldor, scarred and frost-bitten, mingled with bakers of the Avari and the Sindar and Falathrim - learned many new recipes, made new songs as they learned new languages.

They did not let languish the habit of singing power to even the plainest flatbread. But some of them sang the old words, too, thanking Telperion and Laurelin, naming Vána and Yavanna and all the rivers that grew from Taniquentil's cold springs. Whenever she sang of Aman, Idril recalled Anairë's strong hands covered in brown flour when she repeated the same motions, turning dough and shaping it with perfect confidence, and deliberate skill.

There was time enough and plenty enough to try to replicate it. By her willingness to learn and her dedication to experiment, she added new ingredients to old recipes - pines from the great trees that grew over her new window, acorns from Ossiriand and Mithrim, pecan and pistachio from Himlad.

It was a bitter satisfaction, to be able to store up enough provisions for the journey to the place where their hidden city was to be raised; to be able to count and prepare and know for certain there would be enough coimas for all the efforts of moving and raising stone, if only barely.

Idril knew how to do this work. Meleth walked the woods with Turgon and Aredhel to say farewell and give thanks to the land; Idril stayed behind to fill the oven with new kindling, and made enough spare loaves to leave a good share of meals in Turgon's abandoned throne room. The scouts Nolofinwë sent to find them found only Nevrast abandoned, and enough to eat on their fruitless task.

-

Idril woke early, in Gondolin.

The sun met her many times with her shoulders taunt and her hands busy, singing over her work. It was an effort, at times, even through the Long Peace, not to let her voice and hands slip towards recipes perfected on the Ice, made to sustain strength beyond every privation more than please the mouth. 

Turgon raised up a city where his wife might have been safe and joyful and free of want, with a dozen fruits to be gathered at every corner.

The people of Gondolin ate their bread dipped in honey and olives. All the Lords of the City kept their doors open, and baskets of bread under the threshold of their arched doorways, for those who passed by; and the smell of it filled the streets at dawn. When warm, it tasted of orange and apple, all the fruit grown amidst the green gloss of the leaves lining the avenues of the White City.

Anairë, Idril thought at times, would have enjoyed the sweet-bitter of it. 

[tehnakki]

Olive has "discovered" (ie realized she can climb into the bathtub while dry) the maiden hair fern I was growing and has taken it up on herself to trim it back daily 😩

[kit-williams]

First Meeting

Lion El'Johnson D&D AU

Canon status? It's canon to its AU

"How did you meet mother?" Luthor says looking up at his father as he draws the heavy bow back watching his father's eyes narrow before letting the arrow loose.

"Why are you suddenly so interested?" Lion says calmly as he and his son start to forestwalk.

Between patches of trees their conversation can be heard by the moss and the ferns and the fungi. "Because I'm a man now."

Lion snorts at his sixteen year old son. Still just a boy in his eyes as he was no Primarch no need for him to grow up quickly. "Is that so?"

"And well not everyone can save a damsel in distress to get a wife." Luthor says as if it is obvious. The fledgling Paladin and the Dark Angel look to the twisted beast snarling as the arrow Lion had loosed had ripped right on through it.

"Fine I'll tell you. Kill the quarry." Lion said pulling his sword out just watching his son fight. He had promised his Dove that he would make sure the boy was safe.

"SMITE!" Luthor shouted and Lion watched those green eyes turn gold as he could feel it... out of all his children so far Lion had sired... he was truly his grandfather's child. As power rushed into the monster through his sword and it laid dead. He could tell Luthor was grinning under his winged helm.

"Alright."

-------

Seventeen years earlier

Lion frowned at the ruckus the soldiers were making. He clearly knew his part in keeping this fledgling lord safe... perhaps his brothers were right that he was simply a sellsword at the moment but Lion didn't care. Beasts seemed to be in plenty supply for him to fight.

"Not a party man?" A voice cooed at him as he looked over at the maiden, though maiden was a strong term given her appearance as she grinned at him. Shoulders exposed to the twilight sky, her blonde hair in unruly trussels, and she gave him such a cat caught with the cream grin. "Oh I do apologize," She cooed with certainly no apology in her voice, "Not a party man, ser?"

"Lion." His deep timber resonated as he gave her his name.

"Oh the big man of the hour. I hear the lord is going to give you something nice tomorrow." She winked and Lion just scoffed but Gloria took it in good stride given the fact the mighty Ser Lion hadn't backhanded her away or shooed her off.

"And what would you know of it?" He said pulling on his gambeson and freeing his long blonde hair from its tie. It fell straight verses this maiden's half curled locks.

Lion's icy blue eyes watched her face as she hesitated for a brief moment... the slight shame in her tone before she just lightens it, "Well I'm one of his handmaidens it's my job to know." She forces a smile.

"Well why are you here?" Lion asks bluntly and it seems she is unphased by his rough nature.

"In his service or besides you?"

"Both." Lion says waving a hand as he walks over to a small stone wall and sits on it.

She shrugs following him, "Got nothing else really going for me. And to let you know good Ser I was out here catching my breath first. Only so many times you can allow your ass to get slapped passing by men before it gets annoying."

Lion's head snapped towards her and she sighed, "None of that good Ser no need to waste your righteous chivalric anger on a pigeon like me." She says sitting on the wall with a smile.

"Pigeon?" Lion says softly.

"Yeah, some men like to think proper court ladies like doves. Pure and just sit there being demure and cooing softly. I'm hardly anything like that. I'm just some piebald bird only good for sending missives and annoying the bakers for bread. Nothing like a dove."

Lion sat for a moment before speaking, "Doves and Pigeons come from the same family. A dove is just a fancy pigeon."

She blinked at him before slapping her skirt and laughing nearly falling off if not for his hand grabbing her arm as she just laughs and laughs. He tilts his head not seeing what is so funny about it.

"Oh thank you Ser Lion you've made my night. Perhaps I shouldn't be so dismissive of myself."

The topic of conversation is lost to his memory but she eventually tells him her name... Gloria. How it dances from his mouth. Lion was taught on Caliban to seek the demur and courtly woman but there was a freshness to Gloria.

"Ser Lion I'm awful at dancing." She says holding his hands looking down at her feet.

"You're in good company. I'm awful at dancing myself."

Again she tilted her head back laughing, "Then why are we trying this?"

"To live as fools for a night." Lion says softly as the two do slow methodical steps. Hardly any room for deviance on Lion's part as his hand rests on her hip as her off hand rests on his shoulder and the other hand for both of them rest together.

"Forgive what I am about to say Ser Lion but bad dancer my ass." Gloria giggles as he takes the lead before dipping her and a furious blush rushes over her face as this feels scandalous.

"I cannot forgive your mouth Lady Gloria." He smiles internally as she giggles at being called a lady. Her rough hands against his as they simply dance. But the night grows long and tomorrow calls for duty.

"I won't say I wish to see you again... I won't get my hopes up." Gloria says.

"Why not?" Lion uncharacteristically asks.

"While you are getting some lucky lady as a gift, Oh hope you aren't torn up about the surprise being ruined. I get to share the bed of a new man to help convince another knight to stay here. But if by some act it should be you... tell him you've never met me." And with that Lion knows not to ask questions with the list in her voice... the way she looks away and down... the shame of it all. Before she looks up, "I hope to get enough one day... go out and have a small adventure... perhaps find my own knight in shining armor." She pauses for a few moments, "Oh I must be boring you. Have a good night Ser Lion. I shall treasure this night."

"Good night Lady Gloria." He says kissing her hand causing her to blush deeply.

------

"A simple companion nothing more really." His lord says walking with Lion and as much as he wishes he was back home... Lion remembers to remain somewhat humble. He and his brothers have not siezed power in these lands for a reason... they did not want to be warlords again. But Oh how the Lion wish he could throw his weight around but without his sons to rally to his aid... Lion huffed.

"Again my Lord I do not need some nanny to cook and keep my armor cleaned or patch my holes."

"But you could be using your time elsewhere verses mending your things yourself. Just allow her to show her use." Lion could see that glint in his eye but he would humor the man. "She is particularly good at what she does. Ser Lion this is Gloria."

He was the master of keeping a stone face as he looked over Gloria. No longer in attire fit for a lower class she was put into lower nobility attire, her wild hair pinned back into a tight bun, painted lips, all of that wild bubbly energy he saw the prior night gone as that piebald pigeon she had called herself... had been painted white and forced to coo so sweetly. "I am but your humble servant Ser Lion." She says with practiced grace.

"Have you two met?" The lord says looking over at Gloria.

Lion speaks up first, "No. I've never met her. I would have certainly remembered meeting a charming dove."

She curtsies lower, "You flatter me good Ser."

"Splendid. Just if she doesn't meet your tastes just let me know." He says turning away as Gloria spares him a look and for once the Lion feels a mixture of anger and pity. He ignores the prattling of his lord as he takes her hand and once again kisses the back of it.

"It is lovely to make your acquaintance my Lady."

--------

Luthor just looked at his father blinking. "Wait mother always mentioned there being a dragon."

"Her old liege lord is the dragon in her stories. She simply was saving her dignity. Unlike your Uncle Curze's wife who embraced her past your mother doesn't like to remember it." The Lion says before walking over and lopping the beast's head off. "You did good today Luthor." He says patting his son's head.

While Luthor much like many of his cousins inherited most of their features from their fathers... Luthor inherited his mothers eyes and her unfiltered smile.

"So when are you going to tell me about the Dark Angels?" Luthor says looking up at his father.

"That is a talk for when you are older." Lion says softly as they walk together.

Taglist @bispecsual @the-californicationist @egrets-not-regrets @libraryshadow @illusivecam

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[112alb]

Forest Butterflies

The trees in the forest appeared to be evenly spaced, and walking through them was difficult. Maiden-hair fern grew around the base of the trees. The dense ferns, all taller than she was, made seeing ahead difficult. They contributed to her feeling of being closed in. She looked at a gap between the trees in front of her. It was wider and gave the illusion of being another pathway.

Her sense of direction wasn’t bad, but this was ridiculous. One minute she was walking along the marked path and then somehow, she wasn’t. Surrounded by a forest that appeared to have never been disturbed by humans, she estimated she’d walked for sixty minutes. She couldn’t tell if she was walking in circles.

She’d learned that crashing through the ferns made the butterflies rise in a cloud. The cloud would encircle her, touching her face, landing on her head and shoulders. At first, they made her feel as if she was being tickled. Then an itch started where their feet touched her exposed skin. The dense cloud of butterflies made it hard to breathe without inhaling one of the creatures. She’d run, waving her hands, about to stop them from landing on her.

Earlier, when a bird descended from the trees to peck at something in the ferns, she’d seen a pretty cloud rise up over it. A mass of colour made up of many fluttering wings, moving as one, magnificent to watch.

She did not question why this happened. Now she knew it was a defensive tactic by the butterflies. Previously, she’d thought on the beautiful display of colour when, in fact, it was a successful retaliatory action to drive off the bird from the butterflies’ ferny home.

After being attacked twice, she squeezed between the ferns, looking for any space amid the trees to go forward, hoping her progress did not raise another swarm. Inside, a coloured cloud was not as pleasant as watching one from a distance.

The new pathway beckoned. The stillness in the forest was making her crazy. Her face and arms where she’d scratched herself to relieve the itch were a mass of red welts, bleeding from her nails. She wanted to find the entrance and get out of the forest. Her car contained a first aid kit.

She walked towards the gap, stepping between the two trees that marked the start of the pathway, and walked a few paces forward. She looked around to determine if the pathway continued. It was clearly marked, and the light seemed brighter than where she was standing. Behind her seemed darker.

She looked up at the canopy, which seemed as thick as it was since she’d gotten lost. The light drew her. She shrugged and stepped onto the pathway leading her onwards.

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

During summer, when it is warm, unwed maidens of the North would wear flowers and ferns and leaves, and berries and tiny sprigs of sweet-smelling pine in their hair. Only married women wore headdresses made of stiffened leather and damask.

Images: x x x x x x

[missfishersmurderpolls]

Phryne fashion tournament: looks nine to sixteen

All credit for research used to inform the descriptions of these wonderful costumes goes to @phrynefishersfrocks.

All caps from here.

Looks one to eight available here.

9. Fan dance outfit (Murder Most Scandalous)

[Image ID 1: Screencap from Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries. Phryne is shown from the hips up, lit from behind as she performs a fan dance. She wears knickers with pink feathers matching her fans and a jewelled headress and shoulder piece. Her arms are crossed across her chest, hiding her breasts. /End ID]

[Image ID 2: Screencap from Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries. Phryne's face appears abover her pink fan feathers as she performs her fan dance. /End ID]

Look number nine is one of Phryne's most memorable: her fan dancing outfit from Murder Most Scandalous. She wears knickers with feathers matching those in her fans and a jewelled shoulder piece.

10. Lilac and green coat and hat (Framed for Murder)

[Image ID 3: Screencap from Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries. Phryne is shown from the waist up wearing a lilac and green coat, beige blouse with pattern in matching colours, and a green hat with purple trim. /End ID]

[Image ID 4: Screencap from Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries. Full length image of Phryne stood on a movie set, showing her green and lilac outfit with a black skirt and shoes. /End ID]

Phryne's lilac and green/gold outfit from the start of Framed for Murder is number ten. She has a matching hat and coat over a patterned cream and lilac blouse and a black skirt.

11. Red and cream beach look (Dead Man's Chest)

[Image ID 5: Screencap from Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries. Phryne is shown from the waist up indoors, showing her red and cream blouse with shoulder detail and buttons. She also has matching red earrings. /End ID]

[Image ID 6: Screencap from Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries showing full length view of Phryne's red and white beach look. She stands on a pier wearing a white hat with trim that matches the blouse and holds a yellow parasol with a red fern pattern. /End ID]

One of Phryne's beach looks from Dead Man's Chest is number eleven. She wears a pleated cream skirt with a red and cream blouse and a matching hat and shoes. And that parasol!!!

12. Brown & red kimono with pink collar (various episodes)

[Image ID 7: Screencap from Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries. Phryne us shown from the shoulders up in her parlour wearing her red/brown kimono, with embroidery clear on the shoulder. Her hair is tousled and her makeup slightly smudged from sleep. /End ID]

[Image ID 8: Screencap from Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries. Phryne walks into her dining room wearing her red/brown kimono, holding it closed across her chest. She wears a pale, low-cut night dress below it. /End ID]

Look twelve is Phryne's red/brown kimono. It has embroidery of doves and trees and a light pink trim.

13. All black trousers and sheer blouse (Murder in Montparnasse and Death Comes Knocking)

[Image ID 9: Screencap from Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries. Phryne sits in profile on the arm of a chair in her parlour, wearing black trousers and a black sheer blouse. /End ID]

[Image ID 10: Screencap from Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries. Phryne is shown from the shoulders up. The lace pattern on her black camisole is shown through her sheet blouse as well as her drop earrings. /End ID]

Will number thirteen be unlucky for this look from Death Comes Knocking? High waisted black trousers are paired with a sheer blouse which shows off the lacy bits on her camisole.

14. Blue floral jacket and purple hat (Murder and the Maiden)

[Image ID 11: Screencap from Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries. Phryne and Jack stand in front of a map at City South, Phryne pointing to something on it. She is wearing a black/navy patterned coat and a coordinating purple hat. /End ID]

[Image ID 12: Screencap from Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries. Phryne sits in on questioning in the interrogation room at City South, wearing her black/navy patterend coat and purple hat. The flower trim on her hat coordinates with a brooch and the pattern on her coat. /End ID]

Number fourteen is one of Phryne's investigating looks from Murder and the Maiden. She wears a black and navy patterened coat, with purple cuffs that match her purple hat.

15. White 'at home' cardigan (various episodes)

[Image ID 13: Screencap from Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries. Phryne is shown from the shoulders up wearing her white lace cardigan with a low, rounded neck white blouse and gold earrings. /End ID]

[Image ID 14: Screencap from Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries. Shown from the hips up, Phryne wears her white lace cardigan with a white cowl neck bouse and white skirt with silver belt buckle. /End ID]

Look fifteen is Phryne's white knit/crochet lace cardigan. It appears throughout the series, often worn at home and with stunning all-white looks.

16. Fighting cock robe (various episodes)

[Image ID 15: Screencap from Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries. Phryne is shown full-length, going to open a door in her black fighting cock robe. The image is from behind, showing the full detail of the embroidery. /End ID]

[Image ID 16: Screencap from Miss FIsher's Murder Mysteries. Phryne sits on a white couch with her legs folded under her, holding a piece of toast up in one hand. She wears her black fighting cock robe, the embroidery just visible in the front view of the arms and shoulders. /End ID]

Last but not least is Phryne's black robe with the fighting cock embroidery. Not much needs to be said about it because we all know how incredible it is.

[svamppp]

Sleepover time!

Top 5 fern edition: swordfern, bracken or ladies fern (different ferns but they look similar), licorice fern, deer feen, maidens hair fern

this is hard to do but i think

1 swordfern,

2 licorice fern, fun fact the reason it tastes bitter is because it is 600x sweeter than sucrose and 3000x times sweeter than table sugar!

3 bracken fern,

4 deer fern,

5 madienshair fern,

another fun fern fact: ferns dont have seeds instead they have spores like mushrooms, this makes them excellent and reproducing. they share this characteristic with some mosses and the horsetail family

[cymorilcinnamonroll]

And Lilith Sewed the Seam - Sapphic Short Story

The frost came early that year, the year the Queen of Night came to Karelia. We lived in Sharon, a little shtetl in Grand Russe on the Finnish border that was known for its beautiful alpine aerials and lakes like beads of blue glass. The ocean, too, was refreshing to swim in – provided one went to the banya afterwards. I was a young lass in the rime-laden harbors and forests. We Jews of Sharon were a sailing, seabound lot, making our living off fishing and the waves. But mama, bubbe and I? We were seamstresses of the finest caliber. Some would say we were magick. They called us, and our shop, The Weaving Wives.

The boyars ordered traditional kaftans straight from bubbe’s shop, woven with the earth goddess Mokosh and her lovers Veles and Perun on the breast. I had grown up toeing the line between two faiths. I learned both the myths of Baba Yaga eating unworthy children and the Night Howler Agrath screech-dancing on the roof to mark a house that her husband, Sammael, would strike down as dogs bayed at his twelve-winged flight. Sometimes, late at night, I could hear them.

Or perhaps it was only a storm…

Word of bubbe’s and mama’s and my craftiness spread. The year I turned sixteen, the tsarina herself ordered a fashionable cape from us. It was based off the tale of Father Frost’s granddaughter, Snegurochka the Snow Maiden. A tale I had always loved. It was the first project over which I was given complete ownership.

I embroidered white, pale pink and dove gray pearls on the powder blue cape in little clusters of wings shaped like snowflakes, then stitched eiderdown into the golden seams. Bubbe dusted it with malachite flakes to bless it from far off Azov, the riches of the earth piling high upon the tsarina’s head.

Mama, bubbe, and I were the treasures of Sharon. We were married to our thread, the men and women of Sharon said, and they—from the hunters to the midwives to the rabbi, to my own father, a ship captain and whaler—guarded our secrets with their very lives.

We Weaving Wives were a protected, cherished lot. And our craft was our very soul. There was a deep magick in that sewing. For in truth, we were good witches. We could summon sunlight to make yellow fabric like a peach. Melt down rusalka hair in our oven to create the finest threads. Our secrets were the stuff of legends, and we were glad not to tell the rabbi about them, or even dear papa. And the menfolk knew better than to ask, but the women always wondered.

The cape was the talk of the kingdom.

No wonder, the tsarina was pleased.

As fame of our clothing grew, the Weaving Wives gained esteem. Through charitable works we lifted our community up and filled the synagogue coffers to the brim. Our family did good works in Adonai’s name. All so that Peniel – the Face of God – might shine down after the three of us wrestled long with a hill of fabric, like female Jacobs and a needle-bound angel.

But the frost came early the year I turned eighteen, and it stole my bubbe away. Crying tears like glass beads, I looked into my mirror after shiva was over and found myself a changed maid: my long black curls were winsome, I was plump and rounded to please men, and my cornflower eyes could break hearts. I needed a husband. Only… the village maidens had always been far more winsome.

Fair Shayna, with eyes like silver coins. Comely dark Miriam, with a heart like a thorny rose. And Delilah, the marigold of my garden. I had tossed and turned with all of them in the fields and furrows on Ivan Kupalo, what the Western countries called St. John’s Eve, as we searched for fern flowers together to promise bonds of eternal love. Shayna’s lips were soft. Miriam’s grip on my hot hips was hard, determined, just like Malakh HaMavet striking only holy blows.

But Delilah? She was mother-of-pearl dissolving in Cleopatra’s wine. A beauty wrapped in a carpet, delivered to Marc Antony.

I wanted Delilah more than life itself. But Shayna and Miriam had already taken husbands. We were eighteen, after all. Only Delilah, with her red hair, pale skin, full form, and freckles, was left, and to me, she was more holy than any synagogue, a word on the tongue of G-d that would make Chava take an apple all over again, but this time, a blessed fruit. Delilah was a pearl of great price that could redeem. A benediction and wonder that would lighten the load of the Azazel goat on Yom Kippur and set the Temple right.

So, that night in my anger and mourning over losing bubbe too soon, I looked into my mirror, in the flickering light, and I cast a magick spell. I made a wish on bay leaves and some goldenrod I had dried earlier that year for Delilah to be mine. As I was threading the bay leaves through a needle, to string them over my dresser, I pricked myself on my thumb.

A bead of red delicious blood bubbled up. Suddenly, the mirror swirled into a gorgeous Ashkenazi royal woman with long black ringlets of hair done up in silver bands, a purple wine-dark dress with gold threading, yellow-green eyes like parched grass, and pale, ghostly skin. Her bruised pink lips were bloody, and there was hunger in her eye.

“Pu pu pu!” I said, warding off the demon, frightened. I clutched the red thread always tied to my bandeau and threw salt at the mirror. It sizzled as it hit the candle, putting it out. Then, silence.

I had not a day before the Queen of Night came to Sharon. She was the talk of our little shtetl, rumored to be disgraced Romanian royalty who had bathed in maiden’s blood and newborn calf spittle to retain her youth. She was old, she was young, she was invisible, they whispered. Dressed head to toe in a black veil, riding in a carriage like a hearse. It was pulled by black bulls, and scarlet, bloody-colored ribbons were woven round the black bulls’ necks.

Just like the blood from my thumb.

Lailah, she was called. I was so lost in fear of her, I did not hear the clinking of bells at our shop. Bubbe was gone, Delilah was not mine, and I was haunted by a ghost.

I was manning the shop till, daydreaming about the demon. She… had been beautiful. Lailah was said to be hideous. To be virginal and pure. To be a vampir or dhampir or G-d knew what! Only, this Romanian countess or ghost or queen had come to my shop, now, smelling of lavender and patchouli. She had been watching me, and I felt like I was drowning.

A musk radiated off her that reminded me of eating dinner between Delilah’s thighs.

Suddenly, Lailah let her veil and robes fall, and the demoness from earlier in the mirror stood naked before me, perfect as a pale statue of Dark Venus, brimstone the farthest word from her.

Her eyes were a poisonous, mesmerizing yellow. Her pubis was lightly thatched with slashes of black, her sex an enticing pink wound. She seemed to be carved from alabaster, her legs ending in owl’s feet, great sooty wings on her back, and a night storm cloud of ebon ringlets framed her sharp, small and upturned nose and wicked ruby-grapefruit lips.

“Lilith?” I squeaked. I did not have it in me to “Pu pu pu.” To reach for metal or iron or salt. To even clutch my red thread.

I knew immediately that if this beautiful, treacherous Queen of the Night asked, I would be her slave. I would be a dog in her yard, licking fruit off her feet, honey off her lips. All to taste… majesty. The divine.

She demurred, smiling to reveal needle teeth that only heightened her beauty. “You have grown beautiful, Jael.”

“Oh. No. I, Lilith, with all my pleading, please, flee this place. We are holy. Adonai shall smite you. And you are too beautiful to suffer,” I said, rambling, not making sense, soaking in Lilith’s beauty, her temptation, her smirk, the way her thick hips and ripe breasts swayed as she walked towards me slowly, like a leopardess stalking its prey.

“But, if I flee, you will be nothing. An adamant bloom plucked too young to thrive. You have all the talent of your bubbe Abigail, and all the strength and industry of your mother Bina. There is a reason our faith is passed on through women, Jael. You are the perfect vessel.”

I froze. “You mean to possess me?”

Lilith narrowed her yellow eyes at me. Oh, how I wanted to reassure her I was not scared. And yet, I was. Highly terrified. The Witch of Endor was in my shop, and darkness filled the corners, Sheol the depths of the yard; the windows were blotted out by the realm of husks. It was only Lilith and I at the axis mundi of the worlds.

“No, I mean to pay you,” Lilith laughed in a sultry tone, then quickly softened. “I have need of a dress for a ball Ashmedai is throwing. Ashmedai and Sammael are both my husbands, but they are at war as of late. I need to dress for battle. For the manner in which I fight, and who I choose as consort, shall determine the course of Kingship in Gehenna.”

My jaw dropped. “Like the Maid of Orleans?”

Lilith smiled. “Dear Jael, I have been at this for millennia longer than any Frenchwoman. Now, this I must ask you: can you make me a ballgown the color of a mirror, that reflects all it touches, that can withstand hail and hellfire? If you do, you will be wealthier than the tsarina. As you know, the Shekinah often rests with Sammael, and as the Shekinah’s Handmaiden, I ascend to G-d in turn. He lets me do what I like, you see. The world, for me, is freedom. As I mean it to be for all women, Jael. Your namesake certainly agreed. We had plans, Jael and I.”

“The girl who drove a tent spike through her enemy’s head?” I piped out, voice squeaking yet again. I nervously chewed my hair, then spat it out. “Yes, I can make a dress like that. But I do not need riches. Just Delilah.”

“Lilah. Delilah. She is similar, yet nothing like me. A seal, then, of our bargain?” Lilith leaned against the counter and kissed me, deep. “Yes, you taste just like Jael as well. She was one of mine, you know. Perhaps… but no, Jael. Let sleeping Judges lie.”

With that, Lilith disappeared, and the pale, ghostly light of winter trickled into the shop.

I reached for the red thread on my bandeau and snapped it apart, welcoming the demoness in.

For the fabric, I captured moonlight in a jar. I made it slitted at the train, so Lilith could stride across the burning floor of Ashmedai’s ballroom like the Queen of Sheba did to win Solomon’s heart. I wove the bodice of form-fitting silver silk, loose and dyed from rain under the morning star. Do not ask how the Weaving Wives work our magick. We simply do. It was in bubbe’s blood. It is half in mother’s blood. And I?

I surpass them both.

I wrote Delilah a letter that night. A letter to come room with me. It did not say much other than “bosom friend” and “bubbe’s room is empty” and “mama and papa are leaving for America, so it shall be just us, and I could use a shopkeeper.” But I sprayed perfume from Moscow on it, kissed it thrice, and slipped it in a pink bow and thick sturdy envelope into our hiding tree. An alder.

Delilah wrote me back: “If your gown for this cursed queen goes through, then you will have proven to me that a woman can love a woman, like a man loves a woman, and Jael, I do think… I must not write it.”

There were tear stains blotting her delicate signature.

I cried that night. I stitched Lilith’s seam. I used bat wings boiled down to the finest veins to protect the dress from hellfire. Then I crushed the bay leaves of my witchcraft, when I met Lilith in the mirror, into the fur capelet of mink. It was my heart’s treasure. My greatest wish of all.

And finally, a hilt for a dagger, bejeweled with malachite from Mount Azov. It was sacred in Russia, from one Mistress – the Mistress of Copper Mountain – to the Queen of Night.

Lilith came the day after Sabbath.

She tried it on, the silk bunching around her in pleasing, curvaceous angles, the embroidery and pearls and malachite and mink sparkling, and she shone like the tsarina’s silver tiara.

Lilith smiled in the mirror: “It’s perfect, my Jael. Come walk with me.”

Into her dark midnight carriage with the four red-banded black bulls I went. We rode to Gehenna. What I saw would frighten Enoch himself. Dumah, at the gate, with his poisoned sword of gall. Hazarmavet, the Court of the Dead, where new souls ate meat and drank wine in perfect silence. The winnowing of souls in the fire of Sheol with the punishing, purifying angels. A glimpse of Gan Eden and the Silver City where the angels lived, attending the Promised Messiah. It was all like a crack in the sky.

Finally, Ashmedai’s realm. A realm of exotic desert fruit and pleasure girls and winebearer ephebes. Hot searing heat, simoom winds, oases and belly dancers. It was scandalous.

Sammael’s forces of death, poison and decay camped at the door. I waited in the carriage as Lilith walked on French heels to the forefront, her dagger held high, her dress that I had painstakingly, feverishly sewed gleaming under the hot desert sun.

Lilith’s beauty sparked Sammael’s shedim and lilim and seirim into frenzy. They descended on Ashmedai’s forces as the demon king emerged from his glistening sandstone palace with his forces, dates and palm and rivers of jewels surrounding us on all four sides.

I watched as Lilith turned the tides of the battle, flirted with Ashmedai, lured Sammael. In the end, Lilith took both Ashmedai and Sammael’s crowns as they kneeled and kissed her hands off their heads. She melted the coronets down with fiery breath from her beautiful lips, then formed two gold arm bands for her pale limbs.

It seemed Gehenna had a new ruler.

I am old now. Delilah is my bosom companion. I talk to Lilith in the mirror, late at night, I am aged, Lilith is ageless, and she tells me tales of the world: the invention of electricity. War in America. Discoveries in Asia. How her plans are in motion to free women, so one day, we are not so tied to the cycles of our womb, forced to labor in birth pangs like Chavah.

Delilah and I adopted three girls, and we teach them the secrets of weaving, sewing, and stitchery. We are bringing the crafts of our shtetl into a new age. My parents died in America and seemed to have prospered. I have no intention of leaving Karelia. We are the exclusive gownmakers for the new tsarina.

It is a good life. It is a small life. Lilith and Adonai shower riches upon our community – not too much, but enough that Sharon is known as blessed. The Shekinah still roosts with Sammael, and will until the Temple is set right, and Her people ascend.

I am happy all my days. So is Delilah. When we die, we will be led by Lilith the Perpetual Regent of Gehenna to be her personal weavers and outfitters, and our daughter’s daughter’s daughters will know true freedom in the modern age.

And all because Lilith sewed the seam.

[patchydrawer]

Safe House Plants For Bitties!

heres a list of safe house plants to keep with your bitties if you see them eating them alot please remove the plant (i might do a small series of this i'm currently working on another project so i dont know if i can get much done)

Safe Plants

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Monstera (all kinds)

Philidendron (all kinds)

Spider Plants

Cacti

Pothos (all kinds)

Orchids

Goldfish Plant

African violets

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Unsafe plants

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Rubber Trees

Peace Lilly

Air Plants

Bamboo

Most if not all ferns (only safe fern is maiden hair or rabbit foot just monitor if your bitty tries to eat or bite at the plant)

----------------------------

[publicdomainreview]

“American Maiden-hair Fern Fronds” — one of 15 new Karl Blossfeldt prints just up this week on our online shop: https://publicdomainreview.org/collection/karl-blossfeldt-s-urformen-der-kunst-1928

More about Blossfeldt in our post here: https://publicdomainreview.org/collection/karl-blossfeldt-s-urformen-der-kunst-1928

[pseudonemisis]

I think tumblr ate my first go at this post so here we go again

Plants <3

Just potted these two today and I need some names for them! Left is a rosy maiden hair fern and Right is a bush on fire croton. My plant collection slowly grows and they're so fun