#principle of the tree of life

[a-godman]

To Follow the Sense of Life we live a Daily life in Peace in the Divine Dispensing

Thank the Lord for the sense of life in our spirit making us know whether we are living in the natural life or in the divine life, in the flesh or in the spirit! As we follow the sense of life, we live in a calm, steady, unhurried way, living an ordinary life in the divine dispensing. Praise the Lord! We believers in Christ are unlike any other human being; we do not and should not live according…

[alohapromisesforever]

First Principles: Whoever Has Ears, Let Them Hear What the Spirit Says To the Churches. To the One Who Is Victorious, I Will Give the Right To Eat From the Tree of Life

“Whoever has ears, let them hear what the Spirit says to the churches. To the one who is victorious, I will give the right to eat from the tree of life, which is in the paradise of God.” – Revelation 2:7 (NIV)

[bethama]

I am breaking my streak of not coming to Tumblr to announce I feel like shit to formally announce that I feel like shit.

[sachermorte]

so the thing about english is that people think it's so divorced from other germanic languages based on like. words. I've even heard people try to insist that english is a romance language. because of that whole messy business in 1066 with out-of-wedlock willy and his band of naughty normans. and now a good chunk of the vocabulary is french or whatever and they're prestigious so not using them makes you sound like a rube and this and that and the other

and yes william the conqueror will never be safe from me. I will have my revenge on him. he fucked up a perfectly good germanic language is what he did. this will be me in hell

but the thing is that most words in, say, german do have a one to one english equivalent. not all hope is lost, for those who still dare to see it. it's just that you 1066pilled normancels aren't looking in the right place

dog (en) ≠ der Hund (de) but der Hund (de) -> hound (en)

look with your special eyes. that one was easier. not all of them are this intuitive because of semantic narrowing and broadening and waltzing and hokey-pokeying and whatever else. I'll give you a few more

animal (en) ≠ das Tier (de)

aha! you think. I've got him on the ropes now.

but then

das Tier (de) -> deer (en)

nooooo!! you whine and cry in gay baby jail. the consonants are different!!! listen to me. listen, I say, putting both my hands on your shoulder. /t/and /d/ are the same sound. you just put your voice behind one of them.

nooooooooo!! you wail. deer are animals but not all animals are deer!!! listen to me. LISTEN. they used to be. animals used to be deer. that's just what we called them. it was a long time ago. it was a weird time in all our lives. it's okay.

let's try for a verb this time

to die (en) ≠ sterben (de) but sterben (de) -> to starve

same principle with the consonants, we're just changing a stop (where we completely stop the airflow and then let it through) for a fricative (where we still let some air go through. idk where it's going. maybe to its job or something.)

to starve used to mean generally to die, not just to die of malnourishment. we do that a lot. we take one word for a lot of things and make it mean one thing. or take one word for one thing and make it mean a lot of things. this is common and normal.

"okay but roland," you say, suddenly coming up with an argument. "what about tree? trees are super common. I don't think we'd fuck around too much with that. the german word is baum! what about THAT?"

"when did you learn german?" I ask, but then decide it isn't relevant right at this very moment. but fine.

tree (en) ≠ der Baum (de) but der Baum (de) -> beam (en)

beam??? you ask incredulously. beam???? BEAM?????? you continue with the same tone and cadence of captain holt from brooklyn 99.

yes. beam. like the evil beams from my eye I'm going to hit you with if you don't stop shouting.

but the vowels!!! you howl.

listen. listen to me. the vowels mean nothing. absolutely nothing. they're fluid like water. it got raised in english.

"WHAT DOES RAISED MEAN"

it doesn't matter right now. they were raised better than you, at least. stop shouting. open your eyes and see what god has given you. they're the same word.

"they're NOT the same word. they mean different things!"

we've been over this. they didn't used to. a beam was (and is) a long solid piece of wood. much like the long solid piece of wood I showed your mother last night.

FAQ:

Q: could english be some kind of germanic-romance hybrid?

A: do you become a sexy thing from the black lagoon just because you dressed up as one for halloween? english may have gotten a lot of vocabulary from norman french, but its history and syntax are distinctly germanic. that's what we base these things on.

Q: okay but what does it matter? this doesn't actually affect my day to day life

A: you come into my house? you come into my house, the house of an autistic man living in vienna austria and studying english linguistics and you ask me what does it matter? sit back down. I was going to let you go but now I have powerpoints to show you

Q: you're stupid and wrong and gay and a bad person

A: I know it's you, Willy

[thatone-highlighter]

duck how do u live like this

By doing whatever i want forever and living by 3 rules

1. be kind. Be kind to yourself. Give others the benefit of the doubt. Help where you can. Find the good in anything and everything no matter what

2. if its not hurting the person doing it or anyone else, leave them alone they’re fine

3. if it sucks, hit da bricks. See something online that upsets you? Close it and click away. Dont enjoy something youre doing? Stop and d something else. Dont like the way someone is treating you? Stop being around them.

4. have some whimsy and joy in your life. Find it in the world. Make it if you have to. Just make sure its there

[kisakunt]

megumi’s pissed— pissed with a big, capital p. he’s bothered a lot; irritated and agitated with people daily, no stranger to fingers curling into a fist either at his sides or to the top of someone’s head. but right now, in the cold of your room, he’s pissed.

“take this shit off.” he won’t dare lift his hands himself because if megumi is a man of anything it’s principle. you laugh— louder than a giggle but nonetheless muffled by your pursed lips— and shake your head.

“no can do, nutmeg.” and now he’s really mad.

“don’t call me that.” he’s itching, his normally protruding hair flattened, his palms clammy, his breathing shallow.

“c’mon, why are you so miserable all the time?” it’s a slow drawl, a whine that he has to force himself to ignore. “can’t you show a little joy? maybe even some jubilance? or dare you say it might kill you?”

your name comes out stern, calculated and pointed in a way he knows will get to you, and simply, he repeats himself.

“take this shit off.”

megumi fushiguro is not a big believer of tradition. he has never obsessed over a birthday— although he did buy you a singular cupcake and candle on yours— or stressed at the thought of marriage. he’s not big on anniversaries and he couldn’t care less about a baby shower or bachelor party, so naturally holiday’s mean nothing to him.

you on the other hand are, in his own words, a nutcase. you’d met him two weeks before the christmas prior and insisted you get each other small trinkets. on valentine’s day you gave everyone you knew a card, on easter you mastered the art of making your very own chocolate, on halloween you bought a costume that he refused to wear.

and now, here you are again; snow on the ground outside and a small, and frankly sad, tree in your room symbolizing not only the biggest day of your year but an absolutely grueling year of knowing you.

you sit in front of him, criss cross, with a goofy little grin on your face. he can’t help but think it’s utterly disgusting that that’s doing something for him. regardless though, he stands his ground.

“if you don’t take this off right now i’m not talking to you for a week.” you laugh for real this time, shaking your head with more energy than before.

“well we both know that’s a lie. i’d probably drop dead if you did that and then, overwhelmed by guilt, you’d turn into an even weirder and sadder old man.”

“i’m not old. take this shit off.” atop his head sat a truthfully horrific santa hat. it couldn’t have cost more than two dollars, assortment of dim led lights on the trim. he can’t help but think of how many little, lice ridden kids must have tried this on. but he still won’t budge.

“you know you can just take it off yourself, right?” he does know that— obviously— but again, he has beliefs. he has pride. it has absolutely nothing to do with the fact you’re looking at him like he’s heaven on earth or the matching hat smothering your own hair. it has nothing to do with you at all.

he shifts, leaning his body weight onto his left side as he presses his hands into the plush of your bed to lift himself up. he makes a little show of it, slow and meticulous as he barely raises himself.

it would be so easy to avoid this situation. it would be so simple to shake his head or yank the hat off or have stopped you from putting it there to begin with.

megumi’s pissed, but it’s not with you.

“i’m serious. it’d actually be nice to have a moment of quiet in my brain.” megumi is furious, livid and squirming in his own skin. he’s absolutely, unequivocally angry.

he’s angry because he can’t figure out why for the dear life of him there’s a tightly wrapped gift tucked in the bottom of his bag, or why he knows the nearly exact color hex of your eyes, or why he’s hummed— hummed— the song ‘war is over’ twice this week.

you grumble, butt hurt and annoyed now too, and you reach over as fast as you can and snatch it off of him.

“there,” and now megumi’s even more upset because that upset him and his head feels cold and empty now. “happy now?”

and before he can think, before he can be as calculated as he always is, it slips.

“no.” and in that moment something shifts. it’s both of you, just a little bit towards each other, it’s the tension that’s now (and always has been) in the air, it’s the way your hat slips a little to the side.

“well i just can’t win with you, can i?” the— his— hat lays loose between your fingers, your voice quieter than he thinks he’s ever heard it.

megumi wonders time to time if he’s a coward. he knows he’s strong, he knows he’s just in his opinions, he knows he fights. but sometimes he freezes and sometimes he panics and sometimes he can’t look you in the eye.

maybe it’s time for him to be brave. he leans into you, closer to you, breathing you all in and, brushing your fingers in the process, he takes it back from you.

suddenly it’s warm again. suddenly you’re matching again. suddenly he feels close to you again.

“there.” for once, it feels like christmas to megumi. “happy now?” and it feels like he’s got a gift in front of him.

[calmcoldevening]

First time kiss little headcanons

Jason Voorhees

• You were sitting around the campfire and all that. The night, the silence, the light crackling of the fire and the quiet chirping of crickets. It's so beautiful and cozy.

• Your head is on Jason's shoulder, his hand is on your waist as he slowly strokes your soft flesh.

• And at that moment, for some reason, you decide that you want to express your love and feelings in a new way.

• A second later, you lifted the edge of his hockey mask and gave him a short kiss on the lips.

• Overnight, his whole face was covered with a bright blush and he got up from the tree with his face covered with his hands (on top of the mask, of course).

• This guy went into the woods for a good fifteen minutes to digest what just happened. But God, he loved it.

Bubba Sawyer

• Bubba has never had close contact with people in principle, so your love and attention, although it was like a breath of fresh air into his harsh life, were still somewhat alien to him.

• His brothers often laughed because of how he blushed just from your gentle touch. It made him even redder, like a lingonberry.

• But one day you were almost killed by one of the tourists who decided to use you as an excuse to escape. Bubba was especially mean and cruel back then. He cut that man open like a real pig.

• Emotionally, you clung to Bubba with force, burying your nose in his chest, even though the man was covered in blood. Bubba was a little taken aback, but hugged you back, throwing the chainsaw on the floor. That's when you decided to kiss him.

• It was hard to call it a real kiss. Rather, you kissed him, and he licked your lips like a happy dog. A sloppy and wet kiss, for which he was terribly ashamed afterwards.

• It confused you a little, but you promised yourself to teach Bubba to kiss 'like a human being'.

Thomas Hewitt

• God knows why this crazy family left you, but the fact remains. You were the 'wife' of Thomas, the Hewitt family butcher. He was quite gentle and even childish towards you: Thomas never molested you, did not make any ambiguous hints, my God, he did not even touch you for simple hugs without your permission. Although his uncles laughed at him for this and condemned him, believing that a wife is a husband's thing.

• You were immensely grateful to Thomas for that attitude. Perhaps that's why you took a certain liking to him. That's why you were always glad when Thomas showed his attention to you. You've told him many times that he really doesn't need to ask permission to touch, but he insisted on his own.

• Over time, you saw that Thomas, no, Tommy, your Tommy, is really hungry for touch and affection. Whenever you 'gave permission' to cuddle with you, the man would rush to your embrace like a slaughtered puppy.

• He was a child in many ways, despite the man's body. You could say with certainty that before you appeared, if a female victim got into the house, he probably felt some desire related to his physiology, but it was quickly replaced by anger because of his self-hatred. It was sad. Because of his religious upbringing, he was absolutely stupid in matters of upbringing and, in principle, did not know how women work, which, of course, you will have to help him later.

• So you just decided to thank him for all his work, let's just say. After all, showing affection was indeed something rare in relation to Thomas. And so, when he was in the basement cutting up another victim, you cautiously approached him, standing on tiptoe, and kissed him on the cheek. It took a few minutes for the man to work out the information. He just put the knife down and looked at you from top to bottom with those big puppy dog eyes. He only looked at you like that. The man was silent for a while, and then raised his hand, gently running his thumb over your smooth cheek. There was a bright trace of blood on the skin. His way of responding to a kiss.

Pyramid head

• Over time, the Pyramid Head really started to feel something for you. Even though he was a monster, his human beginnings were quite blurry, so he tried to learn as much about your habits as possible.

• He loved to study. When he wasn't killing monsters in the city, Pyramid Head was usually very close to you. He watched your actions and tried to understand their essence. Pyramid Head loved holding your hand. Your soft skin contrasted vividly with his rough, callused and scarred one. He liked the feeling. He liked the way your body temperature was changing. When you were afraid, your hands sweated and became cold, but if you were happy and felt safe, you were quite warm. He was always pretty hot.

• Knowing about his desire to study people, you couldn't help but try to show him how human affection works. His movements were usually crude and purposeful. The Pyramid Head felt a strange itching sensation inside and the thought that he wanted to touch you. That's why you had to explain that since you're a different person, he can't touch you without your permission. This put the monster in a stupor, but after a while he really understood. And then you started acting. At first it was fleeting touches and attempts to hug him. When he got used to your presence and body, you started kissing his cold metal helmet as a sign of appreciation. It was hard to call it a kiss, just touching metal with your lips. But he surprisingly liked it. Every time you kissed his helmet, the Pyramid head one would make a deep chest purr.

• It has already become commonplace to thank him with a kiss on the helmet. But today, there seemed to be some new thought in his mind. When you pulled away from him with a slight smile on your lips, a lump of flesh like a thick tongue suddenly burst out from under his massive helmet. This pink snake gently slid across your cheek, which made you flinch, but did not pull away. He seemed to be studying you, tasting you. Finally, a chest purr bursts out of the Pyramid-headed Man's chest and his tongue slides into your mouth, pulling a muffled moan out of you. It was weird. But not unpleasant. Rather, it's just unusual. He clumsily explored your mouth with his tongue, watching your reaction. His hand was a little rough, but still gently took your hand in his, placing it on his chest. You could feel his heartbeat gradually accelerating, soft and fast under your skin. He liked it.

• You had to teach him to use his monster language more carefully, but it turned out to be successful. Now, whenever he protected you, he expected you to kiss him. Not just a kiss. His tongue almost instinctively came out from under his helmet, moving to your lips and asking for permission without words.

Art the Clown

• Art often killed couples in love and therefore often witnessed quite, uh, intimate relationships of future victims. And the kiss was one of those things that interested him.

• He stood in front of you covered in blood with his trademark satisfied smile and tried to tell you something without words. He was jumping up and down a little with excitement and showing you things with gestures. He folded the fingers on both hands with his thumbs and depicted two people kissing. You had to think a little before you realized what he really meant. When you asked Art if he meant a kiss, Art clapped his hands joyfully and began nodding actively.

• It's not that you haven't gotten used to his unusual, somewhat grotesque appearance yet, no. But kissing a maniac is not something you do every day.

• Art's gloved hand reaches out to your cheek, cupping your face. With a mischievous gleam in his dark eyes, Art bends down, and his painted lips meet yours in a greedy but inept kiss. She tries to repeat what she saw through the window of those people, but it turns out to be somewhat awkward. Your mouth is filled with the taste of paint and blood. But it's not a bad thing. Unusual. Your hands find his neck and you pull him closer, as if encouraging him.

• The first attempt was quite interesting. Considering that you already had some experience, you taught Art how to kiss well pretty quickly. Now he demanded a 'kiss of praise' after each of his successful kills.

[littjara-mirrorlake]

Principles of Asexual Heredity in the Phyrexian Organism

We know these things for sure about Phyrexian reproductive biology:

Phyrexians reproduce asexually; it is well known that one drop of oil, from one individual, is enough to birth a population of offspring (such as all of New Phyrexia) or convert a non-Phyrexian organism.

Phyrexians natively born of the oil ("core-born") inherit mnemonic and phenotypic (appearance) information from the oil that created them. For example, core-born Phyrexians of the Orthodoxy naturally develop porcelain metal; it is an inherited, lineage-specific trait. The oil also carries ancestral knowledge such as the Phyrexian language and echoes of history.

The five suns of Mirrodin somehow caused the originally mono-black lineage of Phyrexian oil to splinter into five colored lineages. They may have all arisen from one drop of oil, but they are phenotypically diverse.

(Little canon data is given about the genealogies of core-born newts, but it would most logically follow that Phyrexians descend from single-parent lines, a family tree with continually forking branches and no unions of mating as with sexually reproducing organisms.)

The mechanism I propose for the diversification of Phyrexians on Mirrodin is mana-induced mutagenesis. As a deeply magical material, it follows that Phyrexian oil is prone to being influenced by concentrated sources of mana, such as the suns of Mirrodin (which were trapped in the core, in close proximity to the progenitor oil, during the birth of New Phyrexia). Exposure to mana can thus cause de novo mutation in glistening oil that manifests as novel phenotypic traits in resulting Phyrexians. These mutations are not random, guiding phenotypes to align with the color causing the mutation.

Then there is the issue of inheritance via phyresis, or compleating another organism which was not originally Phyrexian by introducing Phyrexian genetic material into its body. To keep it simple I will begin with mono-color infections: an organism is infected with oil from a Phyrexian whose lineage traits (i.e. white-aligned Orthodoxy lineage, porcelain) may not match their own color identity.

Hypothesis: Phenotype (what color/type of Phyrexian an infected individual becomes) is determined solely by the color of infection, not the subject's own colors. Crucially this isn't the same as color identity; i.e. one can be a porcelain Phyrexian and still have a Boros identity by gaining red-aligned values or retaining them from a pre-compleation life, even though their phenotype is white only. (Much like how elves are associated with green mana, but Simic-identity elves exist.) This phenotype color, in turn, is also what would be passed down to any newts the turned individual creates, or subjects they themselves infect.

MOM corroborates this hypothesis. A mono-black-aligned human, upon exposure to Progress Engine oil, becomes a Phyrexian with a pure blue-aligned phenotype. The changes to their color identity are additive--they retain black alignment--but their phenotype is blue only. All the transforming creatures of MOM follow this pattern.

However, Planeswalkers in ONE did not. For example, Jace was infected by Vraska, who had both black color identity and a black/Thanes-aligned phenotype, but spontaneously developed eyestalks and other traits characteristic of blue Phyrexians from the Progress Engine.

New hypothesis: Individuals with a strong enough internal concentration of mana, i.e. Planeswalkers, cause oil to mutate in vivo to align with their own color, much like how the suns mutated oil in Mirrodin's core. This further shows that mana-induced mutagenesis is color-specific. This should however create a new blue lineage, independent of the Progress Engine, also spawned of blue mana but not necessarily identical. I do not have an explanation for Jace's resemblance to the Progress Engine besides convergent "evolution."

Proposed further study (not ethics-approved): Infect a colorless Planeswalker, i.e. Ugin, with colored oil to test whether a null color identity still has mutagenic effects.

To complicate this, though, we also have examples of Phyrexians who are chimeras of multiple colors, combining traits of different lineages. Vishgraz was assembled with material (genetic and otherwise) from a white, a green, and a black Phyrexian. It makes sense that Phyrexians put together in this patchwork way could have a combination phenotype. Atraxa was not assembled from scratch, but infected with four separate colors at once. Maybe there are just four types of oil circulating in her body?

I am, of course, interested in inheritance. If these Phyrexians show combined phenotypes, what colored trait(s) do they actually pass down? Do they have individual "cells" that are still only white, only green, only black, etc., or did the colors somehow combine on the most basic hereditary unit level? Thankfully, we actually do have an example of a "chimera" Phyrexian asexually producing core-born offspring: Ixhel.

Ixhel shares multiple colors with Atraxa, not only in her color identity but also apparent phenotype (she has both Orthodoxy porcelain and Swarm copper). Two possibilities here: 1) She truly inherited both genetically; Atraxa passes down multiple colors when she reproduces. 2) Her "core" physiology is still rooted in one color, i.e. white porcelain, and the green parts were added after the fact. I don't have an answer for this, but it's intriguing to consider.

Proposed further study: Attempt to isolate the smallest "unit" of Phyrexian heredity (one single nanobot of the oil) and test if it can only store information about one color, or multiple. See if a germ is formed from only one of these units, as with eukaryotic zygotes, or from multiple.

My theories of Phyrexian reproductive biology remain highly speculative, but every new piece of data adds fuel to this fire, and I have plenty to elaborate on in later posts. If only the interplanar ethics committee would stop delaying my research.

[exhaled-spirals]

« To mention the global loss of biodiversity, that is to say, the disappearance of life on our planet, as one of our problems, along with air pollution or ocean acidification, is absurd—like a doctor listing the death of his patient as one symptom among others.

The ecological catastrophe cannot be reduced to the climate crisis. We must think about the disappearance of life in a global way. About two-thirds of insects, wild mammals and trees disappeared in a few years, a few decades and a few millennia, respectively. This mass extinction is not mainly caused by rising temperatures, but by the devastation of natural habitats.

Suppose we managed to invent clean and unlimited energy. This technological feat would be feted by the vast majority of scientists, synonymous in their eyes with a drastic reduction in CO2 emissions. In my opinion, it would lead to an even worse disaster. I am deeply convinced that, given the current state of our appetites and values, this energy would be used to intensify our gigantic project of systemic destruction of planetary life. Isn't that what we've set out to do—replace forests with supermarket parking lots, turn the planet into a landfill? What if, to cap it all, energy was free?

[...C]limate change has emerged as our most important ecological battle [...] because it is one that can perpetuate the delusional idea that we are faced with an engineering problem, in need of technological solutions. At the heart of current political and economic thought lies the idea that an ideal world would be a world in which we could continue to live in the same way, with fewer negative externalities. This is insane on several levels. Firstly because it is impossible. We can't have infinite growth in a finite world. We won't. But also, and more importantly, it is not desirable. Even if it were sustainable, the reality we construct is hell. [...]

It is often said that our Western world is desacralised. In reality, our civilisation treats the technosphere with almost devout reverence. And that's worse. We perceive the totality of reality through the prism of a hegemonic science, convinced that it “says” the only truth.

The problem is that technology is based on a very strange principle, so deeply ingrained in us that it remains unexpressed: no brakes are acceptable, what can be done must be done. We don't even bother to seriously and collectively debate the advisability of such "advances". We are under a spell. And we are avoiding the essential question: is this world in the making, standardised and computed, overbuilt and predictable, stripped of stars and birds, desirable?

To confine science to the search for "solutions" so we can continue down the same path is to lack both imagination and ambition. Because the “problem” we face doesn't seem to me, at this point, to be understood. No hope is possible if we don't start by questioning our assumptions, our values, our appetites, our symbols... [...] Let's stop pretending that the numerous and diverse human societies that have populated this planet did not exist. Certainly, some of them have taken the wrong route. But ours is the first to forge ahead towards guaranteed failure. »

— Aurélien Barrau, particle physicist and philosopher, in an interview in Télérama about his book L'Hypothèse K

[beidak-art]

My new, very fresh OC I'm very excited about ♥️ He is, surprise surprise, an awful Teutonic knight seated in one of the commanderies in Prussia at the very beginning of the 15th century, mainly engaged in typical Teutonic activities such as propagation of unwanted faith, harassing Masurians and oppressing pagans by cutting down their sacred trees and raiding their settlements. It goes on until he falls into the trap of a passionate, forbidden affair with a cheeky witch (who is as awful as him, just different way) living on the edge of the bog, and his entire life so far and the firm beliefs and principles that guided him begin to fall apart piece by piece.

Honestly, I craved Teutonic OC for years, and finally having one feels great :]

The story is co-created with my dear @grozat and we make it entirely out of self indulgence ❤️

[chocodile]

Amaranthine Magic System PART III: Spellcraft for… Everyone Else (Including Unicorns)

This is Part III of a three-part worldbuilding set.

Part I - Part II - Part III (you are here)

So, we’ve now established how magic works and how it can be manipulated by a wizard. But wizards aren’t the only ones capable of using magic... as mentioned in Part I, even a tree can do it. How does THAT work? Surely it must be pretty rare, right?

Well, actually, a number of plants and animals have evolved to harness magic. Something about them—either a physical organ, body part, or some sort of instinctual behavior—is able to warp magic in a way that happens to be beneficial. Some examples:

A predatory cat that can use magic to bend light around itself and appear “invisible” thanks to the molecular structure of its fur

A mole that can vibrate its claws in such a way that they increase the charge of magic in the earth around it, causing solid stone to temporarily liquefy

A flower whose roots absorb magic from the earth and use it to resist freezing, allowing it to bloom all winter long

A bird who sings at a strange, disorienting, warbling song, the vibrations of which interfere with the magical frequencies used by its most common predator

A carnivorous plant that paralyzes its victims not with venom, but with numbing bolts of magic produced by a specially evolved structure whenever it detects nearby movement

You may notice that, with the exception of the carnivorous plant, all the other examples are simply using magical energy already in their environment rather than producing it themselves. Which brings me to the next detail… magic can be “cast” from two types of sources:

“Enchantments”/Ambient casting/passive casting: Happens by gently shaping the background radiation of magic already in the environment, like most of the examples above. It is typically done by passing the magical energy through some sort of physical structure in order to alter its frequency. Most enchanted jewelry functions on this principle. Studying animals that perform passive casting can be useful for wizards to learn new casting and enchanting techniques themselves, and many methods of spellcraft are based on patterns of magic wave manipulation first observed in nature. 99% of animals and plants that use magic fall into this category. Also, this sort of magic waxes or wanes in power depending on the ambient background magic radiation levels of the area… your magic locket may fail you at the worst possible moment if you take it someplace with very low magical background radiation levels.

Active casting/”Casting spells”: Magic where the power source comes from within the creature itself and can be actively turned off or on, such as the carnivorous plant example above. Animals and plants that are capable of active casting are typically quite dangerous indeed, though their bodies tend to make for incredibly valuable spell ingredients and materials for crafting magical devices. Luckily, this ability is extremely rare in nature… the ability to truly “cast a spell” is found almost exclusively in wizards.

As a half-celestial, Ambroys sits at sort of a weird position. He technically is an active caster, as he has his own magical field and he can summon his abilities up at will (or, more often in his youth, accidentally) using his mind/will as the primary trigger. However, half-celestials and half-infernals have the shape of their magical “filter” predefined by their heritage and physical anatomy—it is not consciously shaped the way a wizard’s is. They may be able to choose which of these predefined forms their magic takes, and may even discover new variations on their powers throughout their life, but they can never consciously teach themselves brand new spells from scratch, and will never be able to switch fluidly through several different types of similar magic without interruption the way a wizard could.

To Hyden, this makes Ambroys closer to a beast than a person, magically speaking (no offense, of course). He can’t talk spellcraft with him because he’s not doing anything on purpose… he’s just brainlessly clicking his silly little claws together to dig through rock like the mole mentioned earlier. He will never truly understand all the complex mental hoops Hyden jumps through every time he conjures up a flame to light his opium pipe, even if Ambroys can do the same exact thing by just thinking “ok, fire time now”. It’s just not the same, you know?

Aaand that wraps up the Amaranthine magic guide! This should hopefully provide a clearer view of how everything works in this setting. :)

[hoseoksluna]

THE BALL OF LIGHT, iii. | jjk

pairing: friend!jeongguk x fem!oc

genre: heavy angst, fluff

rating: 15+

word count: 7.8k

summary: the rules yoongi made in your life are doomed to collapse.

pin: ball of light / taglist: join / discord: join / masterlist: run

cp: tba

warnings: biker!jungkook, smoking and vaping, oc is learning what it's like to be platonically touched and loved, state of numbness, anxiety, betrayal, lying, spying.

note: i love this chapter so much. i finally feel connected to the characters, which is something that i was lacking in the first two chapters. i broke sweat writing this and i spent hours on this. don't be a silent reader and have mercy on me. let me know what you think. <3

The vaporous retrospection of Jeongguk’s hands offered you solace beneath the slanted downpour of the hot shower stream. Using the slender, satiny, beige scrunchie that is used more as a statement bracelet of yours than a ponytail holder, you seized your long bob into your trembling fists and put it up, imagining it were Jeongguk’s stable and strong fingers working around the sleek fabric, making sure your hair didn’t soak one drop of the water. 

The tears had halted, somehow, the moment your foot lifted over the shower floor. You let the stream dribble over your face, wash away your awkward moment of weakness—the mascara you rubbed off, the ebony teardrop-shaped trails of your agony that in another dimension wasn’t agony at all, but the velvet antithesis of it. Something very akin to the homely-like joy, warmth and a connection you could depend on. This is what you did, more often than not. Set your imagination into motion as a form of coping mechanism that would smooth out all the nerves in your system that had been wrung out into an unnatural, unrecognizable architecture. 

It wasn’t that Yoongi didn’t typify a wall you could lean against. Vitally and physically, he did. Daily, you had a roof over your head and food in your tummy. But metaphorically and emotionally, that wall he embodied was too sturdy. Impossible to break through. Impossible to speak through. And that could never be the connection your soul so earnestly sought. 

That could never be anything at all. 

Nothing awaited you on the other side of this dead end. 

Jeongguk helped you perceive that. With his hands, with his wise words that caused such tumultuous chaos in your body. Enough for you to find the nearest exit and isolate yourself. Weep in peace. Wash it all away. And it felt as though someone up above, beyond the clouds and the stars, wrote down this moment a long time ago. Made it so Jeongguk would offer you a chance to shower—in fact made it so the first snow of the wintertime would begin to fall and block your way home. 

What would’ve happened if your bus did come after all, if you stubbed Jeongguk’s cigarette and waved him goodbye? 

You would be still standing in front of this dead end, in front of this sky-high wall. Not half-pivoted to leave, not considering other options. Not carrying the closest experiences of physical touch in your hands. Not feeling warmth. Not swallowing the aftertaste of Jeongguk’s cinnamon tea. Not having the ghost and the reaction of his hands as an anchor you cling to. 

You would have nothing. Just like you did your entire life. 

And if the turmoil never happened, it wouldn’t have made this much difference. It wouldn’t have ripped open a hole in this nothingness; it wouldn’t have shattered the iron of your shackle. Because it was this turmoil of his, this pain of his, that coaxed that wisdom out of him, despite his fatal flaw. His friend became yours—and beneath the shower stream, you came to terms with it. 

With the principle that makes life a life: no pain, no gain. 

Rain brings flowers, and the more you dwelled in the memory of Jeongguk’s hands, the more the buds of blossoms opened with more sense of safety and comfort upon your tree. Because they made you feel this way. 

His arm lifting in your direction at the sound of your cry, then whisking back to his side in respect. His hands warmer than the cup they were holding, not twitching at the throe of the scalding liquid. Good, good hands, belonging to a good person. 

Nothing about him is unsafe, even when he exposes the painful truth over your life. How could anything about him be unsafe by any means, when the only shower gel he had was of that cinnamon fragrance. 

He’s no longer the essence of macadamia, musk and cedarwood. 

He’s cinnamon through and through. The spice of sweetness, the spice of winter. The epitome of warmth and carefulness, profound and unforgettable in taste. 

The tears you weep next are for him. For the deeply-buried unrequited affection he has for Ka-eun. For the unfair, horrendous treatment he deals with day by day. For all the love he stores within himself while having no one, absolutely no one, to give it to. 

And feverish pearls of thankfulness trickle out of your tear ducts for him, too. For the freedom he so freely and selflessly engraved into the flesh of your heart that you sense won’t overgrow anytime soon. 

Pearls of thankfulness that he’s a witness of, for he stands at the door. Puffy mouth agape, chocolate eyes wide beneath thick-rimmed glasses. Something is ringing—you can’t hear it, but you can feel the pulse of the noise. The alarm that beats in his aura as he’s frozen on the spot, unknowing what to do. He can’t see one inch of your body due to the tinted hue of the glass separating you from him, but he can see your tears. Can see their flow. And perhaps he can see their inner sadness, too. 

You don’t feel naked. You were bare and raw while fully clothed just a while ago in his kitchen, but right now with nothing to cover you, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. His irises don’t glide down. Don’t even dare to skim down to the darkly shadowed back of your shoulder that faces him. His mouth moves, the ball of his Adam’s apple leaps nearly to his chin as he swallows, but you just can’t hear a damn thing. 

And then the ringing grows in volume. A sound that pierces your eardrum, that rips your gaze away from him as soon as your hearing senses accept it. Your brows pull in, the shrillness of the sonancy reverberating through your sternum like icy gunfire—and you wish it was softer, you wish the everlasting coldness wouldn’t stalk you, and you wish you would stay warm. 

You inhale and exhale. Tightness swathes your chest and the following breath you take is shallow, not enough for your lungs. Panic settles in, your arms wrap around your body, and then… shadow. 

Shadow inches in. Spreads its wingspan. 

When you glance behind your shoulder, the glass door is open. Jeongguk stands at the entrance with his graceful hands holding up a towel for you. His head is turned to the side, unwilling to look at your nakedness out of that respect of his. 

You don’t have control over your body when you step out of the shower and into the cotton of the makeshift security of those wings. Using the carefulness he’s patched together with, he wraps the largeness of the towel around you. As if you were a small child, being dried off by its father. The only spots of your form he touches are your shoulders and the upper planes of your chest. Your eyelids are heavy with the weight of your tears and a certain tiredness from the day as your irises flick to his. And the spell of your numbness, little by little, breaks because he looks right down at you with utmost seriousness and concern. 

He sees you. 

You’re seen. 

“Hold it,” he murmurs, speaking of the two edges of the towel, the edges of the wings that he still holds together with his fist. Those corners of his mouth are downturned, just like they were when you entered his apartment. You mimic that pout, lamenting that you’re making him feel this way, that it’s your fault the turmoil has come back to him, even though the shared negative emotion smears your chest with warmth. It’s an oxymoron, your guilt laced with your desire to stay in this dimmed microcosm with him. 

It reminds you of the connection you seek. It resembles it too, too much. 

You fold your arm beneath the towel and pinch the edges together, gripping his fingers in the process. A shiver cascades down your spine due to that layered touch and Jeongguk blinks, lingering in your clasp for a moment before he lets go, leaning over to turn off the water. 

Grateful, you are. For him, for the way he’s allowing you to experience such an imperative part of humanity that you could never reach. You yearn to hug him, not speak a vowel, and just exist in this newness. 

You don’t know what any of this means. You’re conscious of the shift, the shift of the gravity between you and him, but none of it carries the weight of romance. He encapsulates something else, something way bigger, abstruse and abstract. 

Something that could kill you… or save you in a millisecond. 

“What was that?” Jeongguk asks, his voice still low and murmuring. There’s an impenetrable depth to his pensive eyes that somehow quickens the speed of your recuperation. His question casts a light on you that is blinding, but you can bear it. After what happened in his kitchen, you can, truly,  handle anything. “I knocked. Multiple times. I called out to you, but you didn’t answer back.” 

His eyes flick between yours, searching for an explanation, demanding it, and you’d give him anything… anything he’d ask after the way he turned your life around. 

“I—” you begin but trail off, not knowing how to explain the frailty of your mental health. You, too, comb through his eyelashes in pursuit of help for your words, but what you come across are not letters but the vast prettiness of his being. 

Your knees give out on you, weakened by him, and a snuggly blanket of completion comes to rest over you because Jeongguk’s arm jerks towards your direction again and this time, he doesn’t let it drift back. He places his palm on your arm, holding you steady so you don’t plummet to the ground, lingering there once again. 

Life-giving, that gesture is. You feel your blood pumping throughout the pathways of your veins with more vigor, enlivening your entire body, helping you come out of the fog of your stupor. The sap in your tree thickens and you can see more clearly, hear with a better precision and breathe without any pinpricks or heftiness in your lungs. 

Freedom spreads down your limbs, rooting from the warmth pooling in the dent of your arm, the part of you that Jeongguk is gripping. A cult leader, he’s become. A savior, a dangerous man. And you shall never be his companion again—you’ll be his follower until the day you cease to exist on this earth. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, abruptly breathless, and the axis of his grip opens out, descending down to the rounded edge of your elbow. His thumb traces circles on that fleshiness and the comfort you receive from it brings forth your liquid emotions. They spill down onto your cheeks, but you’re not ashamed of them. You’re not ashamed of anything anymore. 

“I’m okay,” you say and you mean it—because you’ve stepped inside an environment that feels so terribly secure, so terribly grounding, a place that will never leave the internal realm of your soul. 

Jeongguk scans your face, brows knitted. “Tell me what’s going on.” 

You inhale, tipping your face down to rub away your tears with your towel-clothed knuckles. “Sometimes when I get overwhelmed I go numb… that’s all.” 

His circles halt. A nebulous shadow eclipses over his tense features. “Did I cause this?” 

Your lips part. “You told me something I really needed to hear, something that was hard for me to accept. You helped me, Jeongguk.” 

His brows twitch and it is like sunlight filtering through the clouds, the way a small ball of light delicately breaks through the shadow on his face. Your heart writes it down on the bark of your tree in flowery prose—it is a moment that gives you the inkling that you should remember it, and you’re not really sure why. 

Jeongguk pats down your arm. A singular, ephemeral and a significant caress that is charged with a range of words that he doesn’t get to say, for a phone rings somewhere behind the place you’re standing. He nods his chin towards it, sliding his hands into the pockets of his black sweatpants, and it is now that you perceive that he’s changed out of his scrubs into a monochrome leisure outfit. A black oversized top, matching sweats, socked-feet inside white slippers. Even his glasses fit his choice of color—a prettification that makes your knees wobble again, but not in such a drastic way as before.  

“This is the fourth time he’s calling you,” he says, speaking of the phone ringing, but you have very little care for it. Your body, automatically, out of horrible habit, tells you to care, but you feel a strong tendril of strength that helps you resist it, stand up to it—and stand up to your brother. “That’s why I’m here. He won’t stop.” 

You glimpse behind your shoulder at the screen of your phone filled with only the letters of Yoongi’s name. No picture, no emoji. You think that quite perfectly illustrates your relationship with him and you scoff, returning your gaze back to Jeongguk, who nibbles his lower lip absentmindedly, eyes following each movement you make. 

Yoongi can’t get to you when you’re inside this environment. He doesn’t have the key to it. 

The ringing falls to nothingness and a half-minute passes before he calls again. Anger curls in your gut and you turn around, snatching your phone off the ivory bathroom sink, because if you don’t bite the bullet and answer his call, he won’t leave you alone. You press the green button and before you can place the device to your ear and say something, Yoongi beats you to it. 

He spills out his radical worry, intertwining your name into the sentence that threatens to impair your environment. 

“Why didn’t you pick up the phone? I was worried sick that something happened to you. You should’ve been home an hour ago—”

Your towel shifts as your trembling returns to you, nearly exposing your vulnerable parts, and you set your phone down on the sink, putting him on speaker phone. You wrap the soft fabric tighter around you and connect your gaze to Jeongguk’s in the mirror. Your brother spills on, no longer interrupted. 

Sorrowfulness, in vivid hues of blue, draws out across Jeongguk’s countenance. 

“—It’s snowing like crazy. Where are you?” 

Your throat dries, but you will your strength to last a little longer. You clench your fists and do not tear your eyes away from Jeongguk’s, which seem to have the same determination. He’s a monumental pillar, ready to catch you if you feel faint, and you feel this in a great depth that has the epoch-making ability to replenish you. Even far away in a memory, you deem. 

“I’m with a friend,” you croak out and you repeat the short sentence with a bit more heroism because you don’t wish to be suggestive of weakness. Not again, not ever. A subdued light floods Jeongguk’s eyes in slow motion at your words, giving you a sense of pride and validation. A specialty of his; it must be the bottom of his kindness, the foundation of his heart—this very unique act of emotional service. And you close your palm over it, clinging to it with all your might. “I was taking a shower. I’ll get dressed and come home.” 

The truth in the rawest form; the exposure of your life beyond the restraints of his standards. You fear his reaction, you fear his reaction so much that within the silence of him comprehending your words you almost go to seek Jeongguk’s comfort in any way he’s willing to give you, but Yoongi stops you.

Yoongi surprises you. 

“Okay. Give me your friend’s address. I’ll pick you up.” 

Your heart, with full force, kicks against your ribcage just once.

You didn’t expect his resignation—and you would’ve never guessed it would come plaited with such a gentle form of care, for his care has never been gentle. It has always been stifling, frantic and utterly manic. 

And the way you lick your lips, swallow and take a new breath in this even newer reality, it feels as though you won. You won the invisible war with your brother who has wounded you too much for you to get up. 

But you did.

You got up, and Jeongguk refreshed you, prepared you to fight back and win this round. 

It must be his words in your mouth, ones he silently transmitted to you through your potent eye contact with him in the mirror. It must be, you believe it to be so, because at this moment you’re too stunned to do anything. 

“No need. My friend will give me a ride home.” 

Jeongguk visibly relaxes, nodding solemnly, approving. A spasm of excitement buzzes in your tummy at the sight, and you can’t help the small growth of your smile. And it, too, is complete when he half reciprocates it, a dimple appearing by the corner of his mouth that is lifted in your honor, in the honor of what you both managed to do in the span of one hour. 

“Alright, tell her to drive slow.” 

Yoongi ends the phone call. Jeongguk pulls his hands out of his pockets and begins to crack his knuckles, rolling his shoulders back as if he were in a stressful situation that strained all of his muscles. You bite your lip to relieve yourself of all the buzzing sensations that crawl upon your every nerve ending, but your abrupt laughter releases your teeth from the pillow. 

Her. 

You laugh so hard that it forces you to hide your face in the towel, the sound muffled but real, alive and exhilarating. And when you peek at Jeongguk in the mirror for the last time, you catch his smile widening and breaking, at last, into a grin that mirrors your enthusiasm. 

“This is your life,” he rasps, adding your name, which propels butterflies to tickle, fleetly, your tummy. “Your life by your own rules. Enjoy every moment of it. You deserve it.”

And with that he leaves, clicking the door shut behind him. 

Your tea has gone cold, but the cinnamon scent is still prominent. 

Jeongguk is manspreading on the couch, one fist propped on his thigh while he is hunched over his loud phone that he clutches in his other hand. He doesn’t notice you as you paddle softly to the kitchen counter to take a sip of your tea—and it isn’t until you slurp the nippy liquid that he rips his attention away from the videos he was watching. He locks his phone immediately, pocketing it, and bathes his crepuscular apartment in an ample silence. 

You're glad for the lack of light. 

Witnessing the state of you without his presence was a scare. The traces of your mascara tears were scattered with flecks and specks on your cheeks that the stream didn’t rinse off, and your eyelids have become swollen with the excessive amount of crying you’ve done within the fateful hour. Your excitement hasn’t been shunned by your sparsity of confidence, however. In fact, it keeps on increasing, having transfigured into a velvet ribbon that you wrapped around the bark of your tree whilst getting dressed. You fondled it then and you fondle it now, dwelling on the matter that went down, and how good it felt. How right, how freeing. But owing to what happened, to what Jeongguk has done for you, you’d much rather be pretty in his eyes right now.

And you’re anything but pretty. 

You’re a ruination. About to be rebuilt into something pretty. Or someone. 

Setting the cup down, you smile at the taste of cinnamon and cloves, liking the way it is so redolent of who Jeongguk is. You hope it fills your dreams later tonight, bursting there into smithereens that you can carry inside yourself. 

As little talismans. 

To keep you company. To keep the perception of the safety Jeongguk had provided you tucked within the crevices of your body—so you can go back to it, remind yourself of it as soon as you start to forget. 

“Ready to go?” 

His voice penetrates the silence, announcing that you are to leave the fortress-like environment you are already missing. You direct your eyes, for the last time, at the little gleeful Gingerbread man, graze the tip of your thumb over his smile in an effort to engrave it there as a keepsake. And then you nod, though you’re not ready. 

You’ll never be ready. What if your freedom disappears as soon as you cross the threshold of your home? 

You blink the thought away. Grow weary of your deathless fear that just continues rising in your psyche. You wish you could kill it—or rather have Jeongguk asphyxiate it, just so it stops whispering those what ifs, those questions and those hostile words. 

“Yeah, let’s go.” 

Jeongguk walks past you and returns to his place where he stood a little while ago. He places two black helmets on the counter. One bigger and one particularly smaller. You wonder if it belonged to Ka-eun once, if the inside of the helmet is still perfumed with the scent of her hair. 

Another ifs. 

You look away. Your forefinger finds his pink vape, fondling it, saying goodbye. You’ll terribly miss this life you lived in this apartment—and once you get home, you plan to pray for another snow, so you can escape, so you can live properly. Here within this warmth; here where all things are possible, aromatic and whimsical.

Jeongguk studies you, and as soon as you instinctively glance at him, he extends his hand and closes his fingers around your tousled bun. It brings back a memory, a painful memory of the past, when your father would run his fingers through your wet hair. Back when you were a child, when everything was normal and your father loved you. No matter the weather, you would slip away to the petite creek behind the house. Your hair was so long that it would drift upon those soft ripples. Even the wind would gather it and soak it in the water—to cleanse it off all the bad words your mother would utter over it. Too long. It’s shameful. It gets in your food. It’s wet again? It’s dripping all over my floors. Mop it up. God, you’re useless. Do it properly. Water was invariably your means of escapism. Oh, how could it not be when you’re a water sign yourself. And your father was the only one who would dry your hair with a hand towel he would keep in his study for you before your mother saw, before she could curse you for another lifetime. 

And the way Jeongguk does it now, you metamorphose into that small child that never did anything right. Suddenly, your hair is long again—and you didn’t cut it when you turned fifteen and your father somehow stopped loving you, stopped paying attention to you, stopped drying your hair. And as small as you are right now, your heart regrets the loss of your dearest papa. 

Your hair hasn’t been touched since the death of him. 

Since he couldn’t touch it anymore from the afterlife. 

The tears burn now behind your eyes, but you stifle them back. You don’t want to cry anymore, you don’t want to experience this pain any longer. You can’t even look at Jeongguk in fear those liquid feelings would betray your will; you can only focus your gaze on that vape of his. And before you know what you’re doing, you're grasping it and placing it between your lips. 

My nerves are asking for more, he had said and you relate to him on such a profound level that it feels gratifying once you puff on it and the strawberry scent imbues your lungs—to such an extent that when you respire, you can feel it mingling with the oxygen. It’s still there. Such sweetness. You understand why he likes it so much, why he can’t stay away from it and smokes it, despite the fact he shouldn’t mix it with his cigarettes. 

Jeongguk smiles through the ivory fume, drifting his hand up to the crown of your head before he inspects the face-framing wisps. They’re damp, but not wet, not like the ball of your bun. 

He lets his hand fall to his side. You lament it. 

“Your hair is wet,” he says gently, pursing his lips. “I don’t know if your bun will fit inside the helmet. You should put it inside your sweater, so you don’t get sick.” 

It is something akin to a religious experience, not being told off for having wet hair. You mull over it, the fact he cares enough to tell you what to do, so you don’t get stricken with illness. The tears rush forth with more verve, and you try your hardest to not cry again. It’s like your father, a healthy and younger and pre-you version of him, is standing in front of you. Out of this world, heavenly, this moment is. 

You take another puff. You must. 

“It’s good, isn’t it?” Jeongguk asks, a lopsided smile hanging upon his lips. His eyes flick down to your parted mouth exhaling out the smoke that blends in with the cinnamon spice. “Keep it.” 

You blink in surprise. “Are you sure?” 

He nods, busying himself with something on the other side of the kitchen, beside his refrigerator. In a minute he’s back, carrying a bulbous sack of foreign items that he plants into your free hand. 

“Take these fruits home. I put the cinnamon tea inside, too.” 

You part your mouth, touched to the core. Open the sack and uncover that he’s put inside three figs and two teabags. You pout, whisk your eyes back to him to see him nibbling on his lip, features back to being solemn and glossy. He’s breaking a sweat—perhaps fearful that you’ll turn him down, laugh at it and brush it off. You’re heard of Ka-eun doing this on many occasions and if there’s anything you could do for him, to caress that scar of his, you shall not be like her. 

You fold the paper sack and clutch it to your chest. 

“I’ll eat it and drink it all,” you say, but you don’t mean the latter. You’ll put the teabags on your nightstand—to have him close. “Thank you. You’re so kind.” 

His following exhale is a sigh of relief and he nods, irises preoccupied with something on the upper part of your sternum. When you follow his sight, he’s already taking a step forward and discarding you of the unknown thing that he was focusing on. You realize it’s a fluff from the towel when he flicks it off from his fingertip—and then, as if he didn’t do such a groundbreaking thing for you, he takes both of the helmets. 

“I’d give you more but that's all I have.” 

The ground breaks, and so does your heart. 

He turns on his heel and heads for the hall. The atmosphere is hushful, but tranquil as you both put on your shoes and jackets. Jeongguk holds the door open for you, waiting for you to step out first before he does. He clicks it shut, waits again for the sing-song tone to tell him it’s locked, and then you’re in the elevator. 

The elevator that is microscopic, even for two people. 

You glance behind yourself at the mirror, find yourself pallid and colorless. Insecurity gnaws at you, and so you pinch your cheeks, one by one. Jeongguk watches you and shakes his head at you once you notice his stare. There’s no room, no time for any exchange for words because the elevator opens and he signals to you to go first with a tilt of his head. 

And that is what brings color to your cheeks, not your pinching. 

His bike outside of the apartment complex stands forlornly. The black cover over it is densely snow-laden, and the snowflakes flutter and spin in the air more tenderly than they did earlier. You, yourself, stand back with your sack and watch him do the work. He hands you, wordlessly, your helmet and once his hand is free, he slides his own down his head, popping open the visor. Nimbly, he takes both ends of the cover and lets the snow glissade down on the patch of grass behind his bike, which is draped with the same substance. Then, he expertly folds it and stuffs it inside the trunk, lifting his arm in your direction and asking for the sack, which he neatly places inside as well. 

You’re breathless once he’s finished—and you’re empty of all air when he begins to concentrate on you. 

His eyes are saturated with something sensitively dark as he takes your helmet from your arm. The close proximity tugs at your heart and you feel smaller than you did in his apartment. Smaller in a way that suggests you’re being taken care of. His icy hands undo your bun, but he doesn’t give you back your scrunchie. Mindlessly, he drags it down his wrist. Your cheeks heat up within this wuthering vicinity, and Jeongguk protects your wet hair from the wind by pulling the hem of your scarf over your head, tucking your strands inside. Your lungs forget to breathe when he glides the helmet down your head with extra tenderness and necessitates for your eyes, flipping up the visor. 

His hands remain on the helmet as if upon your cheeks, inspecting.

Always inspecting. 

“All good?” 

Your heart does a somersault. You nod. 

“Are you scared?” 

It’s not hitting you yet—the fact you’ll drift through the snowy streets with nothing to protect the sides of your body. No seatbelt, nothing. Only trust in the driver. 

“I’ll drive slow,” Jeongguk adds, his words an allusion to Yoongi’s, and you huff out a soft laugh, the lightheartedness from the occurrence consuming you all over again. 

He taps the side of your helmet and walks towards his bike. Doesn’t laugh, doesn’t smile—as if he didn’t share your enthusiasm in that aspect. He swings a leg over the body of the vehicle and presses the start button, the engine roaring into the evening. It seemingly opens its eyes: lights that line the body of the bike and its tires glare in dark neon red. He’s a black figure against the violet, twinkling scenery, sprinkled with the daintiest, most intricate snowflakes, and your relation is clear to you as you observe him like this. 

You’re becoming attached to him. And maybe that should be the thing to be scared of.

Jeongguk curls his fingers in the air, gesticulating that you are to hop on, and you do. Because you’re not scared, because the idea of being scared of Jeongguk doesn’t simply make sense to you. 

The bike is cold as you follow his motions and sit down behind him. You hiss at the sensation and he glances back at you, though he’s not able to see much due to the thickness of his helmet. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“It’s cold.” 

He coos to himself, ever so quietly that it gives you the impression that you weren’t supposed to hear it. And before you can comprehend his softness and react, he speaks. 

“You have to hang on. I’ll get you home soon.” He tweaks the handlebars. “Hold onto me.” 

As soon as you place your palms on his shoulders, the vehicle begins moving backwards in a more rapid way than you anticipated. You startle, gasping, tensing behind him and gripping his muscles. Jeongguk is quick with his response—before he drives out of the sidewalk and onto the road, he moves your hand from his shoulder to his waist. Would move your other hand, too, but he has to handle the bike, turning in a swift way that takes your breath. 

“Hold me like this, don’t let go,” he calls out, and you comply, intertwining your fingers before his chest, and then he’s drifting.

Your intertwinement loosens. You grapple the front of his puffer jacket for more support as the wind, interlaced with the unmerciful snowflakes, sails through the sides of your body, entering you through your throat, knotting your stomach. The vacant tide of the airy atmosphere appears to be sturdy and ruthless, but when you risk letting go of his jacket to flip down your visor because your eyes have started to burn, the sharpness of the breezing air is silky, elegant and lovely. Not severe, not harsh, not against you, but for you. It’s like the air parts for your touch, enveloping you, and because you long to feel more of it, you extend your hand to the side, allowing yourself to simply feel. Feel life be compliant and lenient. You lean your head against the center of Jeongguk’s back and watch your hand be kissed by the wind and the snowflakes, not having one care in the world. 

Everything wrong ceases to exist on this road with him. 

You mimic the waves of the sea with your hand because you sense that you’re being carried to a better part of life. You’re sailing, swimming, you’re happy and at peace, and those feelings are accompanied by the sudden sound of Jeongguk’s sweet chuckle. But you don’t shy away. No, you don’t have any reason to, for Jeongguk extends his hand, too. His ripples are way lengthier, protruding through the air in more depth due to the size of his hand. Together you swim like this just for a brief, blissful moment—he, in the front, you behind him like the follower you are, like the child you are in your adulthood. 

And the time frame of this felicity doesn’t pause at the red light. 

You’ve situated your hands back to his chest, and Jeongguk rubs them in fast motions, warming them up, glancing back at you. 

“Did you flip down your visor?” he questions, his voice deepened by the adrenaline of the ride. 

You nod, internally geeking at the fact he’s touching your hands. “I did. My eyes were burning.” 

“Good.” 

Your heart is delectated by that praise. Content drowsiness seizes you while your joy beats, meekly, in your belly. And it is now that you perceive that you’re hugging him. It may be through a myriad of warm layers, but you’re hugging him—and he’s holding your hands, caring enough about them being cold while his own are frosty, but still filmy, still soft, still gentle. And this time, when he lets go, you don’t lament their absence because he’s buried in you, somehow, the trust, the security that he will touch you again. 

There’s nothing to be afraid of. 

He’ll come back around. 

Everything is okay. 

You must have fallen asleep with your one eye open because you don’t even recognize how much time has passed. Jeongguk taps your hands again, calling you by your name, and you hum, feeling him burying that trust deeper by the gesture, feeling yourself getting used to being touched by him. 

“I’m driving through your bus’s line now, I need you to tell me where you live.” 

You straighten and squint in the dark, deliberating your surroundings. You’re four stops away from the one you get off on. 

“Go straight and then take the first turn,” you navigate him, your tone marked by your sleepiness. “If you see the trees in the distance, that’s where my house is.” 

You return to your former position, resting peacefully on his back, and you’re about to close your eyes again, but Jeongguk’s following question fling them right open. 

“Should I stop a few houses down?” 

You’ve never had Yoongi expecting your arrival, so you’re not sure if he’ll be standing by the window, waiting for your friend’s car to park in the driveway. You hesitate, but are inclined to go with his suggestion, though Jeongguk continues to speak in your silence. 

“I don’t want you to deal with his bullshit once he sees that I’m not a girl.” 

His intonation is snappy, laced with his own personal vexation from your relationship with your brother. Your lips curl in a satisfied smile, quivering under your helmet—and here and now, the guilt doesn’t creep in, the inert need to stand up for him doesn’t resurface. You take pleasure in the way he’s bothered by it and the emotion stays. You’re so glad for it that you softly pat his chest a few times and agree with his suggestion. 

It dawns on you that his vexation with your brother is the reason why he didn’t share your enthusiasm when you stood outside of his apartment complex. Your inner child dances around the tree within you, the tails of the velvet ribbon brushing through her long, long hair. 

Jeongguk sighs once he nears your house and you deem he does so because he sees how it’s positioned. The ivory castle of doom dominates the street, overlooking all the other smaller houses, which face each other, while perched on a hill. There’s nowhere for him to hide, not now when he’s driven up the hill. 

He kills the engine, parking the bike by the side of the road. Your hands are numb as you untangle them. You shake them in the air in an effort to get your blood pumping in them. Jeongguk remains sitting and you take it as a sign to hop off first, which you do. Your bum is bitingly ice-cold and, hissing, you rub it. Jeongguk laughs at you, popping open his visor. His eyes are crinkly and starry while he amusedly looks at you, and there’s some kind of intent to his stare that makes your stomach feel all fuzzy. 

You burn under the helmet. 

Blood flows to your digits, and therefore you use them to rid yourself of the protective headpiece. You struggle, however. Stuck in it, you can’t move it—no matter how hard you try, how many muscles you flex in order to discard yourself of it. You hear a muffled chuckle, and then you feel cold hands against yours, pulling up the helmet with a certain kind of precision and strength you don’t possess. And there is the close proximity again, jumbling your guts. The depth to the eye contact and unvoiced words that are passed through the wind, which blows through your sweat-clad hair and forehead, unraveling your scarf, baring you for his eyes to see. A wispy strand of hair gets entangled in your eyelashes, flying through the planes of your face, and Jeongguk doesn’t put it away. He surveys it as he contemplates something—and at this moment all you can think about is how he’s never not lost in his thoughts. 

The boy is always reflecting on something within the complex space of his mind, and you deem that’s why there’s an entire canvas of stars in his eyes. The universe must have given it to him, hand-picked by God, because his head is permanently in the clouds. 

How beautiful that is, how momentous. 

“You fell asleep on me,” he rasps, as if he himself couldn’t believe it. “It wasn’t that bad then, was it?” 

You loop that strand of hair behind your ear and shake your head, flicking your eyes for a split second to the unlit balcony of your parents’ bedroom. How great and bad would it be, if they stood there. You don’t know why your heart is seeking them at this moment, why your eyes looked there, but you leave it be. Some purpose it has, but your mind doesn’t have to understand it right now. You find peace in that. 

“You’re a safe female driver,” you joke, your words split by your soft laughter, but Jeongguk isn’t amused, not anymore. You bite your lip, your pleasure from it heightening. “I was scared at first, but then it felt liberating.” 

Jeongguk nods, attuned to your experience. He hangs your helmet on one of the handle bars. “So you’re willing to ride with me again?” 

He peeks at you, magnetically pulling your answer out of you by the laws of the stars in his eyes, and as you blush, you melt. You irrevocably and nonsensically melt. 

“Yeah, but remind me to bring my gloves next time,” you say, grinning so wide the muscles in your cheeks ache. You pull down the sleeves of your jacket to keep the cold from penetrating them. Jeongguk notices, but if he smiles—you can’t tell. He’s still wearing his helmet. 

You think about his offer in the short interlude, looking forward to it. You’d get on and drive back with him to his apartment if you could. When will the next time be, though? He doesn’t drive to school on his bike—he uses public transportation and you wonder why. 

“Why don’t you take the bike to school?” 

Jeongguk inhales a big gust of air, tilting his head back. The snowflakes fall into the wide hole of his helmet, sitting on his nose. As he mulls over his response, his eyes land on you with a tendril of ferocity that puzzles you. 

“I’d rather not give them any more reason to talk about me.” 

He begins slapping his hands back and forth, an act that portrays how nervous he is to talk about this. The stars in his eyes lower to dullness, his irises unwilling to pierce yours. You recollect his nerves and how unwilling he was to flesh them out and unriddle them, too. You know, from his past bus stop heart-spilling, that he doesn’t have many friends within his field, but he never mentioned that they genuinely dislike him. You never heard the details, the gravity of this day-to-day problem. And you feel so bad for him that as he looks out into the distance across the hill, you take the necessary step towards him and take his hand into yours. 

It is the most courageous thing you’ve ever done, but Jeongguk is perturbed. 

And you don’t know it is due to the light unexpectedly turning on in the bedroom of your parents until he pushes you back onto the sidewalk and towers over you, creating a shadow over you that hides you from your brother, who has entered your parents’ bedroom to spy on whether you’ve come home or not. 

“He’s there,” he clarifies in a hushed tone, completing the puzzle piece, and when you lean your head out of the shadow, he gently presses you back into safety by cradling your ear. 

But you can’t dwell on the touch, not when your heart thrashes against your ribcage with such dreadful, stabbing trepidation because Yoongi never goes to your parents’ bedroom. As far as you know, he hasn’t been there since their death. He kept their door bolted tight for the longest time and it remained so until you begged him to give you the key, so you could keep the room tiny in their honor whenever you missed them. He believed ghosts swarmed its walls there the most out of all the rooms in the house, and if the double doors remained locked, they would stay away—and they would stay away from you, even more so with the bracelet he braided you. You persisted, reminding him of the black plait, and he surrendered. For cleaning and nothing else; we don’t come here for any other purposes, he had decided.

This should be the thing to be scared of. Yoongi prancing around the room as if your parents never died, as if he never swore he’d never walk there again, as if his belief in the paranormal never haunted his mentality. 

This is flat-out terrifying—and bears the image of betrayal. 

Your throat dries out, and your lips form that pout of yours. 

“Is he… still there?” you ask, your voice breaking in consequence of your full-body trembling, and the stars in Jeongguk’s eyes plummet to an unmitigated darkness. 

He doesn’t vacillate as he pushes your head to his chest and holds you to him, keeping you safe in his shadow while he discreetly checks if his presence is still by the balcony windows. His fingers dig into the thickness of your hair, and you wish he would pull on it, so you wouldn’t feel this sagging pain in your sternum, which forces your knees down, which forces your tears like strings of a puppet. 

You don’t want to cry, and you don’t want to believe this is real. His room is next to your parents’, for God’s sake. He could’ve spied from his own window and seen you perfectly fine. Without any obstacles, without causing any of these nagging difficulties. 

“He’s gone. The lights are off.” 

There’s no relief from his words. There’s nothing that could alleviate you from what you saw. And you don’t hold back. You tell Jeongguk of the horrible picture as he continues to hold you to him, his fingers sinking deeper into your scalp. 

“He never goes to my parents’ bedroom. He keeps the door locked and he allows me inside just to clean because I begged him to. What is this? He decided that we would never go there.”

Jeongguk doesn’t say anything for a while. He merely breathes with you, his chest lifting and falling while he contemplates the information. His heart is dead silent—just like the room. 

Or so you thought. 

“I don’t think you should trust anything he says,” he utters, at last, withdrawing you from his chest to glimpse into your eyes. Dark, dark those pools are. No stars in sight. “Fuck his stupid rules.” 

You gasp for air, frustrated that this is your life, that it’s interwoven with those rules of his that you no longer respect. 

“I’ll have a cigarette just so he doesn’t think you were with me, but that’s the last time I’m abiding his fucked up rules and views. I want you to know that. This stops today.”

He’s right, and as he smokes his cigarette and you grip his vape in your fist, puffing from it simultaneously with him, the new decision begins to plunge down your body. This stops today, and the decision roots in your belly like a pebble in a creek once he stubs out his cigarette and gets on his bike, pulling out the sack of figs and cinnamon tea and handing it to you. 

This stops today, and the next time he takes you for a ride on his bike, he will park by your house for Yoongi to see.

Although, you don’t realize, not in your poisonously blossoming spite, that you won’t see Jeongguk anytime soon, and that he won’t hop on his bike for months. 

You don’t realize in the moment, as you’re waving Jeongguk goodbye while he drives off, that your efforts are everlastingly useless. 

And that is the curse your mother spoke over you when you were still a child with long, dripping wet hair. That is the demon that lives in the walls of your parents’ bedroom. 

Let out, freed, having been given permission by the breaking of spoken rules to ruin your life. 

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @jjk7k , @tkslovechild , @euphoricmyth, @cinmmongirl , @ririkookiemonster , @perfectiondazesworld , @https-mei , @bangtansonyeondanue , @jungkoock , @cinmmongirl, @hoseokkie-caeks , @kam9404 , @fr0ggieth1nk , @parkinglot-nights, @sadgirlroo

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[elbiotipo]

Ocassionally you see articles that are like "scientists are trying to hide how bad things are" and I'm the opposite of that. I've done my work on ecological restoration (actually grabbed a shovel and planted trees) and I'm amazed at how fast nature can restore itself. Ecologists used to think restoring tropical rainforests, to give an example of a complex ecosystem, would take centuries to go back if it was even possible -this is why you see all the dystopian fiction of rainforests going extinct- when in fact, it has been proven that without human pressure, ecological succession takes place and rainforests grow back nearly to its original physionomy in a few years, even if diversity does take a time to bounce back. Reintroducing animals might sound harder and it is, but we must remember that animals have faster cycles than humans. Just letting breeding pairs in protected areas is often enough for populations to grow back, as in the reintroduction of jaguars to Iberá in Corrientes Argentina, and many other cases. What is even more interesting and encouraging is how cheap, both in the monetary and the general effort sense, these works are. If a bunch of underpaid biologists, rural people and park rangers can do it, imagine if they had the full support and backing from states and international institutions.

We are at a stage where, besides climate change, we are facing tremendous biodiversity loss and this mostly comes to our methods of land use and food production. But these can be changed. We must assume the fact that nature is not a pristine untouched thing, but humans, in every continent they have lived in, have long managed its resources. The Amazon Rainforest is full of useful plants that hint at silviculture which is still done by its native peoples, the deserts and tundra that seem uninhabited have been home to pastoral and hunter-gatherer peoples. Humans have shaped all habitats on Earth, even the most 'untouched' ones. Just as they have managed their environments and natural resources, other civilizations have managed or mismanaged them. Now that industrial civilization has spread across the globe, we need to find a way to balance our need for food and other products with the need to preserve and take care of Earth. This can be done, we can ensure both a good quality of life and a protected biosphere. We can stop the dichotomy of humans separate from nature, assume our historical role as managers and stewards of natural resources, and do it with our modern understanding of ecology and science.

This does mean that it will take a lot of popular mobilization and change to uproot current interests and create states that uphold these principles. But I'm a marxist. I don't 'believe' in class struggle, I think it's a fact based on observations about society, and I also think that this current form of capitalism will eventually be replaced by socialism, and I believe the future socialist societies will not do the same mistakes as the past. We not only can create new societies that can take care of nature and the general welfare of people, but I also think that as history proceeds, it will be inevitable.

[sirenmoontarot]

How do you need to nurture yourself? ☁️🕊️

𝑀𝓎 𝓈𝒽𝑜𝓅 ~ 𝒫𝓈𝓎𝒸𝒽𝒾𝒸 𝑅𝑒𝒶𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈 ~ 𝐻𝑒𝒶𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈

~~~~~ 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 ~~~~~

Welcome to the cottage! I am Alla <3 Sit with me in the garden and let’s have some mystic tea as we see what the Oracle has to tell you. Take what resonates and leave the rest!

Pile 1

Okay guys so for this first group i feel that what you actually need to do is to shine on and embrace yourself as how you are and instead of giving into the chaos of uncertainties and your emotions, allowing yourself to gently flow through those emotions in order for you to be fully yourself. We have the moon theme twice, you would benefit from connecting with it, and using the full moon to manifest. I strongly feel you need to expand your energies, you are constrainign yourself a lot of the time, you dont know how to navigate in your own emotions, this pile is encouraged to believe in your power to create, vision, manifest, create the lifeyou want. The power of the yet-not-created is yours. However in your journey this is continuousl affected by pains and shadows of the past, making you sttray away from you power and purpose. I sense many people of this pile have number 11 prominent in their numerology or birthday. Indicating you are called to lead in this lifetime and you also have a strong purpose here that could be related to spirituality, but it often is hard to manage or not fall in the negativity that makes you sabotage everything. The moon reminds you you are in constant fluctuation and you should embrace the ‘’becoming’’ and the feminine principles of flowing, and embracing your emotions. Times of rest and restoration are needed for you to recharge and connect deeper. A new depth of your spiritual practice is calling you. You should aim for ease and stillness, this will help your mind and life overall. The archeptype you have to heal within yourself is ‘’the judge’’ are you using this to be critical ofyourselg, punishimg, unforgiving, building walls around you? This is a powerful energy and it is a gift of discernment, to do the right actions, power, advocacy and compassion but you have to be careful if you are channeling it wrong towards yourself and therefore others…

Pile 2

First of all I am hearing guys you should believe more that you are on ther right paht, because you are. Start walking more confidently in your life, be in presence, strongly with the conviction that you are where you need to be. You need to work on your shame feelings, everything that doesnt let you live as you would wish. You need to meditate more to calm down those thoughts and dissolve those traumas. To find an inner temple inside. Stop hesitating so much, it all comes from childhood wounds. Many people of this group will resonate with the childhood wound of humiliation. You need to feel mothered, some of you in this group need this very strongly, due to mother wound. Connecting to the earth can help you on this, and after that, you will also learn to mother yourself. You also struggle to fully connect to yourself and find yourself a reliable, sacred space. This is normal it also comes with growth, but you are led to do this now, find or create a sacred space within yourself. The feelings of safety are necessary to you as well. sometimes trauma gets embedded in our system, but we are not always in danger. Practicing the mantra ‘’ i am in peace ‘’ can help you a lot. You need to find security in yourself! Also remember to give yourself the space to evolve, change, with ease, grace, and nurturing. Let yourself shed as many skins as you need. Life might have been extra tough for you lately, as if Saturn was lashing you, lol but you are called to breathe and find activities, places that allow you to breathe, expand, release the tention, stress and burden, and this way see the colours of life again. I am seeing lots of green so again, for this group connecting to nature specially trees and rivers will be very nourishing for you.

Pile 3

Okay you guys for this group the energies are very clear, i am getting PRAYING, connecting with the divine; you should hand over your worries, problems and burdens to the Divine. Put your hands on to work, on what you can control and let God do the rest. Hand it over, The thing is, the Divinity wants you to, not put your energies, focus, power in the wrong things. Some things have to end from your life, for actually better things that would be surprising to you will come. Don’t attach yourslef, mainly is out of fear or unawareness of the wonders of the universe. Do not force, let thing run its course, and count on the Divine to help you out, ask God and your angels for an easy path, for the solution, for them to guide you in ease and out of stress. The Divine wants you to start living your soul’s path, and not to focus elsewhere, things that may seem shiny are actually a void, there are other paths that are more aligned to our soul’s nature, abilities and evolution. You are called to go to a temple, you could also create one, or make your house/room a little temple. You are also called to nurture your human vessel, both physical and spiritually and actually embrace this term of Vessel to know more about what it means and might represents for you.

~~~~~ 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 ~~~~~

Thank you for reading! Remember, take what resonates, leave the rest. Lots of blessings ☁️🪽🌙🕊️

~~~~~ 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 ~~~~~

[nattikay]

...hmm...just thinkin' about an Avatar "no angst" AU, y'know, like an AU where the characters who died in the first movie just...didn't? For example...

• Tsu'tey and Sylwanin are both alive and well. They officially tied the knot not long after the point when Sylwanin would've died in canon, and already have a child together by the time Jake arrives on Pandora.

• Eytukan also lives and therefore he and Mo'at are still leading the clan, though of course Tsu'tey and Sylwanin are next in line.

• Because the schoolhouse incident never happened in this AU, Grace was never kicked out of the village; her school is still running and she is on good terms with the Omatikaya.

• The RDA is overall less psychotic than they are in canon, and the Avatar Program has been largely successful in establishing diplomacy with the local clans. There is still some level of tension between the humans and the Na'vi of course, because the humans are ultimately still there to mine unobtainium and the Na'vi would prefer there was no mining at all, but in this AU the RDA is at least principled enough to not do things like bulldoze the Tree of Voices or bomb Hometree etc. (so, Hometree is still standing). Jake was never asked to spy on the Na'vi.

• Grace is actually the one to introduce Jake to Neytiri when she brings Jake and Norm along to the school one day. Neytiri is intrigued by the goofy non-scientist "warrior" dreamwalker and Jake finds himself equally intrigued by her; they begin spending more and more time together, and when Jake expresses curiosity about her way of life Neytiri just naturally kinda takes it upon herself to teach him the ways of the clan.

• Because Neytiri is neither tsakarem nor engaged to Tsu'tey in this AU, her romance with Jake is not quite as ~forbidden~ as it was in canon (and honestly they make zero effort to hide their feelings; the whole clan knows lol). The only remaining barrier is the fact that he's a dreamwalker and how that may affect things.

• Jake and Neytiri fall head over heels for each other about as fast as they do in canon; after three months Jake is already fully convinced that he wants remain with Neytiri and the clan for the rest of his life rather than ever go back to Earth, where there is nothing left for him. Even getting the spinal surgery to fix his legs no longer holds any interest for him, since of course his avatar body can walk just fine.

• By that point Neytiri begs Mo'at and Eytukan to let Jake do the coming-of-age ceremonies and become part of the clan so they can become mates. Mo'at and especially Eytukan are hesitant, but Mo'at consults Eywa and Eywa sends a sign of approval, so they allow it. Jake spends about an extra month preparing more specifically for Iknimaya and Uniltaron, and soon after completing those he and Neytiri actually get to have a proper mating ceremony. Jake does go through the permanent consciousness transfer at some point, though I haven't yet come up with the exact circumstances there...

• The Sully kids get to have more extended family! Grandpa Eytukan, Uncle Tsu'tey, and Aunt Sylwanin are all still around, along with a handful of cousins (Tsu'tey's and Sylwanin's kids).

• Quaritch never shot Grace in this AU, which means she never had to undergo the attempted consciousness transfer, which means Kiri wasn't conceived the way she was in canon. Buuuuuut I still want Kiri as part of the Sully family, so in this AU she is Jake and Neytiri's biological daughter and Neteyam's twin. She doesn't have the special Eywa powers that she has in canon, but does still have a spiritually-minded personality, and is a strong candidate for next tsakarem after Sylwanin. Grace still adores and dotes on her, especially when she shows interest in botany.

• Norm and Trudy are happy in a long-term relationship.

• There was no Battle at the Hallelujah Mountains, therefore Paz didn't die and was still around to raise Spider (undecided on how involved Quaritch was though).

• I like to imagine that in this AU Paz and Trudy are good friends, both being pilots and all. It's through Trudy that Paz and Spider become involved with folks from the Avatar program and Spider meets the Sully kids.

• Because she doesn't have the RDA-related traumas she has in canon, Neytiri is totally chill with Spider in this AU. She is mostly just curiously amused by the strange little human boy running around with his Na'vi friends.

• Spider is semi-trilingual English/Spanish/Na'vi. English is his go-to since everyone he knows can speak it, but he can also do some Spanish (Paz and maybe Trudy's influence) and quite a lot of Na'vi (Omatikaya influence, though Norm was thrilled to help when he caught wind that Spider was interested in learning). Sometimes he (subconsciously) mixes up a combination of any two or even all three and spews out mishmash sentences no one else understands immediately and has to stop and re-word.

• Because Quaritch is not the Big Bad Evil Guy the way he is in canon, Spider isn't really bothered by being called Miles. However, the nickname "Spider" somehow just stuck when he was very young so most people still call him that; it's mostly just Paz (and Quaritch) who call him Miles.

• Jake is not Toruk Makto in this AU, because with the RDA being more cooperative/less aggressive, he never needed to be. He and Neytiri are just normal (albeit well-liked/respected) hunters in the clan. Perhaps eventually a day will come when Toruk Makto is needed and Jake will have some reason to step up...but not yet. He's perfectly content being just a regular clan member.

• This has the side-effect of lessening Neteyam and Lo'ak's dramatic stunts as teenagers, because the legacy they're trying to live up to is simply "strong respectable hunter" rather than "legendary olo'eyktan Toruk Makto"

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Word List: The Secret History

A list of "beautiful" words used in The Secret History by Donna Tartt

for your next poem/story

Apparition - an unusual or unexpected sight; a ghostly figure

Ascetic - practicing strict self-denial as a measure of personal and especially spiritual discipline

Beguiling - agreeably or charmingly attractive or pleasing

Boudoir - a woman's dressing room, bedroom, or private sitting room

Consolatory - giving hope and strength in times of grief, distress, or suffering

Conspicuous - obvious to the eye or mind

Cufflinks - a usually ornamental device consisting of two parts joined by a shank, chain, or bar for passing through buttonholes to fasten shirt cuffs

Discursive - moving from topic to topic without order; rambling

Erratic - having no fixed course

Hinc illae lacrimae - hence those tears; that is what those tears were for

Hyacinth - a plant of the ancients held to be a lily, iris, larkspur, or gladiolus; a bulbous perennial herb (Hyacinthus orientalis) widely grown for its dense spikes of fragrant flowers

Incivility - the quality or state of being uncivil; a rude or discourteous act

Incredulous - unwilling to admit or accept what is offered as true : not credulous; skeptical

Intimately - in a manner intended to prevent knowledge or awareness by others

Jauntily - sprightly in manner or appearance; lively

Machiavellian - suggesting the principles of conduct laid down by Machiavelli; specifically: marked by cunning, duplicity, or bad faith

Miasma - a vaporous exhalation formerly believed to cause disease; an influence or atmosphere that tends to deplete or corrupt

Morrow - the next day

Peculiarity - the quality or state of being peculiar; a distinguishing characteristic; oddity, quirk

Picturesque - charming or quaint in appearance

Providence - divine guidance or care

Quiver - to shake or move with a slight trembling motion

Rosewood - any of various tropical trees (especially genus Dalbergia) yielding valuable cabinet woods of a usually dark red or purplish color streaked and variegated with black

Schizophrenic - characterized by disturbances in thought (such as delusions), perception (such as hallucinations), and behavior (such as disorganized speech or catatonic behavior), by a loss of emotional responsiveness and extreme apathy, and by noticeable deterioration in the level of functioning in everyday life

Séance - session, sitting; a spiritualist meeting to receive spirit communications

Traitorous - guilty or capable of treason

Undulating - forming or moving in waves; fluctuating

Unstring - to loosen or remove the strings of; to make weak, disordered, or unstable

Voluptuous - suggesting sensual pleasure by fullness and beauty of form

Winter - the colder half of the year

If any of these words make their way into your next poem/story, do tag me, or leave a link in the replies. I would love to read your work!

More: Word Lists