#soggy boggy??

[gotyouanyway]

thinking about wynter again and what did andred mean by this actually??

ANDRED: Oh. Of course. How could I have missed that? Teranwynterestimount of the Arcalian Chapter, working his way up all these years, stabbing everyone in the back who would get in his way.

was he just making things up to be annoying or did he really know something about wynter? like, idk how wynter would’ve worked his way up when he just graduated from the academy (what does working your way up within the academy look like?). but how else would he get on romana’s radar for promotion? what put him on ANDRED’S radar?? what did he do??

[sammypog]

chat is there a moby-dick fandom i need ishmael fanart

[vacantgodling]

where else would i get a description such as

A boggy, soggy, squitchy picture truly […]

i need to add boggy soggy to my vocabulary immediately

[lonely-queer-avatar]

give him back. now.

- you bloody well know who from

he just wanted you to be safe....

[to-the-fishies]

On one side hung a very large oilpainting so thoroughly besmoked, and every way defaced, that in the unequal crosslights by which you viewed it, it was only by diligent study and a series of systematic visits to it, and careful inquiry of the neighbors, that you could any way arrive at an understanding of its purpose. Such unaccountable masses of shades and shadows, that at first you almost thought some ambitious young artist, in the time of the New England hags, had endeavored to delineate chaos bewitched. But by dint of much and earnest contemplation, and oft repeated ponderings, and especially by throwing open the little window towards the back of the entry, you at last come to the conclusion that such an idea, however wild, might not be altogether unwarranted.

But what most puzzled and confounded you was a long, limber, portentous, black mass of something hovering in the centre of the picture over three blue, dim, perpendicular lines floating in a nameless yeast. A boggy, soggy, squitchy picture truly, enough to drive a nervous man distracted. Yet was there a sort of indefinite, half-attained, unimaginable sublimity about it that fairly froze you to it, till you involuntarily took an oath with yourself to find out what that marvellous painting meant. Ever and anon a bright, but, alas, deceptive idea would dart you through.—It’s the Black Sea in a midnight gale.—It’s the unnatural combat of the four primal elements.—It’s a blasted heath.—It’s a Hyperborean winter scene.—It’s the breaking-up of the icebound stream of Time. But at last all these fancies yielded to that one portentous something in the picture’s midst. That once found out, and all the rest were plain. But stop; does it not bear a faint resemblance to a gigantic fish? even the great leviathan himself?

In fact, the artist’s design seemed this: a final theory of my own, partly based upon the aggregated opinions of many aged persons with whom I conversed upon the subject. The picture represents a Cape-Horner in a great hurricane; the half-foundered ship weltering there with its three dismantled masts alone visible; and an exasperated whale, purposing to spring clean over the craft, is in the enormous act of impaling himself upon the three mast-heads.

[freshlybakedfeline]

dougy.... gogyg.... soggy......... boggy

for @largefluffydog!!! ty again <333

[fitzs-space]

Somehow, and hell If I could tell you how the soggy sack of a guy that is Tango somehow has managed to never technically lose any of his time. Sure he'd been killed twice, so -2 hours there, but with both boggie kills he got that time right back [think he also has an extra 30 minuets due to some miscredited kill, unless if they fixed that]. Somehow he has managed to be one of the players with the most time on his hands.

But we know the narrative that follows Tango, right. Just constantly dying in the most insignificant way, just a footnote for the rest of the carnage. So it would be fitting for his win to be just as insignificant.

If Tango wins it will be because everyone else's time just ran out first. His win wouldn't be something gained through a final fight, or a gift of thanks, It would just be from not managing to die first.

[lonely-queer-avatar]

thank you for joining our cause!

the fog is thick here...

you dont see much.

keep going?

or should you give up

-🌫️

You know, I’d assumed you’d know my mind when I’d entered

Good to know I’m wrong

[banefolk]

Today in the poison garden:

Japanese water iris (iris ensata)

This tiny iris with big showy blooms is native to Japan, China, Korea, and Russia where it has been valued as an ornamental flower for the past 500 years, possibly much longer. Today many varieties are available. Iris ensata is a perennial that likes full sun and moist, boggy, slightly acidic soil. It’s a good plant for pond edges or soggy parts of your yard. Hardy in USDA zones 4-9.

Caution: Irises contain multiple toxins that can cause skin irritation if the plant juices touch skin or mucus membranes and cause abdominal pain, vomiting, and diarrhea if ingested. The rhizomes contain the highest concentration of toxins. Iris poisoning is not deadly to humans, just very unpleasant, but they can cause serious illness or death to pets and livestock if ingested.

[gotyouanyway]

WYNTER!!

[iamalycats]

Soggy Boggy Skelly

Lil Guy

[lonely-queer-avatar]

i hate how i cant even let myself out of my own domain

[obsessivevoidkitten]

I desperately need name ideas for a soggy froggy boggy boi.

[cosmmicdancer]

@fruityindividual our discussions of bogman rj lupin sparked things in my brain so I humbly present to you 'remus lupin vs. the bog'

He should have known better really, his Da would be so disappointed in him, after all those years traipsing together through woods, fields, mountains, and bogs. 

It had been a beautiful day, you see, the kind you long for on cold winter nights. The sun had shone, the sky was a wash of blue, and a choir of birds had followed him on his walk down to the river. He’d been waiting for a day like this for weeks to finally get out to try and track down the otter family, he’d discovered last summer. So, when he’d woken up this morning to streams of sunlight on his face, he knew where he needed to go. 

In his rush though, he’d neglected to leave a note for Sirius, who’d already left for work, or check that the forecast would stay clear and sunny.  This was Wales and as is want of the Welsh weather, whilst Remus had been wandering about the river banks (shoes off, socks on, feet…soggy) in search of his otters he had failed to notice the mist rolling in and the increasing bogginess of the ground.

That’s how he had found himself, knee-deep in mud, mist shrouding him from any passers-by, completely, and utterly stuck. To top it all off, not only did he not tell anyone where he was going, but he had also left his wand at home. He can picture it now, sitting on the bathroom counter where he’d abandoned it after half-heartedly trying to fix the constant drip of the bathroom tap. So apparating was out of the question, and upon attempting to wiggle his legs out of the mud, so was getting free the muggle way.

He had no idea how long he’d been stuck for, but was beginning to formulate a (in his opinion brilliant) plan to teach apparation to the curious blackbird who'd been hopping around him for a while, head twitching as if unsure if he was a tree or a particularly oversized worm. 

When somewhere in the mist he heard the unmistakable sounds of a motorbike. This seemed rather fanciful given the lack of nearby roads however, Remus realised with immense relief that a certain Sirius Black was not the owner of a normal motorbike. 

He began to shout as loud as possible, waving his arms about his head in a frenzy. The blackbird, clearly alarmed at this development, quickly flew away. Eventually after several minutes of frantic yelling, the beam of a headlight came towards him and Sirius pulled his motorbike into a hover besides Remus. 

“Now this is quite the situation you've got yourself into Moony,” Sirius remarked, clearly having a hard time from not laughing at the scene before him. 

“I was really close to getting myself out…honest,” Remus said, sheepishly squelching as he tried shifting his legs. 

“I did have a plan at least,” he conceded, after Sirius stared at him unconvinced. 

“I'm sure you did sweetheart,” Sirius said, and Remus preened inwardly at the agreement. Already planning his next trip out, to find the blackbird and test his apparition theory. 

“Right, let's get you out of this mess,” Sirius said, and with a quick flick of his wand Remus’ legs had come free and he clambered onto the back of the motorbike. 

It was only as he was squelching up to their front door that it occurred to him that he had no idea how Sirius knew where to find him. 

“Oh, after the mountain rescue, and the Spanish cave incident, Lily suggested I put a tracking spell on your walking socks so if you weren't home by dinner I would be able to come look for you,” Sirius shrugged, opening the front door. 

“And you can stop right there, if Padfoot can't track mud through the house, neither can you.” Sirius continued, walking into the house. 

“Ah, yeah ok that seems fair,” Remus agreed, it wasn't his fault he found himself in these situations, he didn't think he'd need a map to climb that mountain and that cave definitely didn't look as deep as it had been! 

“Come on, bogman, let's get you cleaned up” Sirius said fondly, and they made their way inside. 

[inthelightofthemorningfrog]

"A boggy, soggy, squitchy picture truly, enough to drive a nervous man distracted."

-Ishmael, art critic

[salixianlegume]

A Weekend WIP

Yeah. It's a pun. Uh..... little excerpt from a Ninjago fic. Pretty much the only context you need is that the narrator is Mr. E (who is not explicitly named in this section for dubious stylistic reasons), and Mr. E uses it/its in this fic because I was reading too much Murderbot Diaries when I came up with it.

It comes back to awareness waist-deep in water in a fog-shrouded marsh. It has no idea how it got there.

Looking arounding, it tries to ascertain where it even is. The fog reduces its range of vision to a paltry hundred meters, but there appears to be solid land about seventy two meters to the…To the... the…

It cannot tell what direction is North; its magnetic field sensors spin in dizzying loops, feeding its navigation routines garbage data. Garbage in, garbage out.

The landmass is to its forward-right.

Its positioning system, much like its field sensors, returns useless information, locating it in the middle of the so-called “Desert of Doom,” where the Serpentine once housed a mighty empire. A second later, and it is supposedly sitting in an ice cream parlor, in the southern suburbs of Ninjago City.

With slow, sloshing steps, it makes its way to the land. As it approaches, more details become clear; the landmass is a boggy little peninsula, overtaken by some plant similar to a mangrove, though at least five times larger than average. Mud squelches under its boots as it climbs out, dirty water raining onto the soggy earth. Standing there, dripping, it consults its atlas, painstakingly built up during the search for the Oni Masks. Perhaps this is a continuation of that search?

It leans heavily against one of the tree’s exposed roots, this one nearly as wide around as itself, letting the plant bear the burden of keeping balance as it thinks.

No. This cannot be part of the search for the masks– they had found all three. And Quiet_One had performed the ritual, bringing back the one who saved the city so long ago. But then–

It had failed. It had failed and been torn apart while the others watched. It must be missing some memory file; its damage was too severe to be put back together only to be carelessly dropped in some swamp that it still cannot name.

Something in the fog shifts, breaking it out of its thoughts. It whips its head around to peer into the gloom, only to find pairs upon pairs of luminescent red eyes staring back, some from trees that it cannot remember being present before. One stalks forward, the clear leader, and though it had never met the other before, his name is known from its history archives.

“Hello, hack job,” General Cryptor says, and an impression of smug confidence presses into it, like he and it were communicating via network or bus, rather than the feeble medium of words. “It’s been a while since we’ve had one of our own join us.”