#storm eater

[songoftrillium]

Cracking the Bone 12/22

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 13, 14, 15, 16

[tlwebb]

[vertigoartgore]

1989's Fantastic Four - The Trial of Galactus tpb cover by John Byrne.

[ernstiggroteadelaar]

Saw someone on youtube open some Bloomburrow play boosters and when they pulled Ygra, Eater of All, they said: "Is this the villain? I don't actually know who the villain of the set is."

and now I cannot stop thinking about why people we see a wild animal that can be dangerous and immediately assume it evil and out to get the heroes. And how the story actually very much tells us that we should learn to see that some natural circumstances that at first glance seem just dangerous and unideal to live with are actually worth our protection

[screechingfromthevoid]

"No time." "No time."

The acknowledgement of the fact that they might not have time. This is all just for a night because tomorrow may come but the next day may not.

Dorian's regrets at thinking about all the different choices and paths they could have taken. Him falling asleep to the idea of bargaining for more time. How this all could have been different.

Orym getting a vision from the wildmother, Will, getting that permission to live came so late. As Orym and Dorian are going off to do something impossible and deadly. That acknowledgement that there really is no time but that night.

If the world ends tomorrow, if they end tomorrow... It would be too soon. It wouldn't be fair. But none of this is fair, is it?

[fishareglorious]

i'd like to think upon joining the foundation the 'excuse me she asked for no pickles' has happened with vila and avgust with windsong.

imagine being a foundation cafeteria worker and having the world's most beautiful slavic woman roll up to the counter and ask to not include pickles in the burger of the woman standing behind her. she is significantly taller than her. in all honestly windsong doesn't mind the pickles but vila insisted

then the very next day an adorable little kid asks for the same request. he has to stand on his tippie toes to poke his head above the counter to ask for no pickles. same woman is behind him. same sentiment as before (windsong will take the pickles but avgust knows she doesn't like them and he also doesn't like them so win-win for both of them here)

[soul-eater-screencaps]

[ficswithtacotuesday]

The Bullet Farmer: *living in a broken down lead mine in close-proximity with other people, using various body fluids to make weapons of destruction*

Immortan Joe and The People Eater whenever he walks in for the bi-monthly meeting:

[khadgarbignaturals]

raz and alexstrasza have the best dynamic. alexstrasza has well thought out and eloquent arguments, and raz says “ur mom” and then starts biting people

[flowers-of-io]

candles for any of the hive <3

“It was in the year that my Mother the Black Needle struck Elulium of the Eimin-Tin with a thought-lightning,” Balwûr began.

Crota opposed instantly, gesturing so ardently he almost slapped Nokris in the face, “No, it was the year that my Father the King of Shapes devoured two-thirds of the Eimin-Tin armada and rent them down to chitin that he then plastered onto his flagship as trophy!”

“No,” Scoroboth said, “it was the year that my Mother War Herself claimed the Umber Sun for herself, and devised a bomb capable of destroying three neighbouring systems in its explosion.”

Incaru was too young to remeber that, so from her spot pressed between him and her sister she only stared at him with curious eyes. Scoroboth’s arm was curled around her protectively. He had no siblings, and Incaru was currently the family's baby; he had latched onto her from the moment she was born, and sometimes Nokris wondered if it wouldn't be easier for everyone to just let Xivu Arath smuggle the kid to her own brood.

Balwûr scowled at the interruptors, “Can I continue?”

Nokris leaned further against the wall pressing at his back. They—Balwûr and Scoroboth, Malok and Incaru, Anûk and Halak and Crota, and him—were all clumped together in one of the back rooms of the High War, crowding around a hearth, the trembling flame casting shadows that danced around the chamber. Balwûr’s face was lit orange as she went on with her story.

“Then: in the year of the extinction of the Eimin-Tin, a silkweaver in service of the High Coven was sent to one of Xivu Arath’s war moons as part of a sisterly bargain...”

Nokris felt his attention drift off like a leaf caught on a lazy river current. He knew the tale of how the Scalpel of Savathûn was forged well enough he could recite it backwards from memory, but there was still something comforting in half-listening to a familiar story told by a familiar voice. From beyond the doorway, he could pick up faint chatter and laughter coming from around other hearths. Fireglow played on the faces of his siblings and cousins, deepening the shadows and bringing out the glimmer of their eyes.

Crota yawned and rested his head against his brother’s shoulder. Small horns had already begun to form over each of his earholes, and one of them was now digging into the base of Nokris’ neck, making him want to sneeze. He shuffled to get more comfortable. Balwûr’s voice was a pleasant hum filling his mind like cotton, words slurring together—and it was not even halfway into the story that his eyes flickered and dimmed, and Nokris drifted off.

A/N: If, unlike Nokris, you actually *are* interested in hearing Balwûr’s story, read on…

This is the story of how the Scalpel of Savathûn, the Archentrope, the Missing Piece of All Puzzles, was forged:

In the year of the extinction of the Eimin-Tin, when ORYX THE KING devoured two-thirds of their armada and rent them down to chitin for his ships, when SAVATHÛN struck Elulium with a thought-lightning and XIVU ARATH claimed the Umber Sun and devised a bomb capable of destroying three neighbouring systems in its explosion, a silkweaver in service to the High Coven was sent to one of Xivu Arath’s war moons as part of a sisterly bargain. She was a young thing, her talent not yet honed by age—but Savathûn valued her craftsmanship, for the silks that would come from under her claws were unlike any other. Her hands had been mutilated from birth, right bearing only two fingers and left bearing four, and though she had been told she would have never become a craftswoman, she went on to ignore that prophecy profoundly. Her weave was unique due to the gift of her asymmetry, and her threads firm with the strength of her will.

She lived and worked within the war moon, in a workshop at the end of a dead-end tunnel. Word about her craft spread quickly throughout the brood: gossip claiming that she could weave silence into a fabric, that the patterns she made would blink and move, that her thoughts themselves were threads she spun not with her hands but will alone. She did not care much for these rumours, as long as they kept those who could seek to challenge her away for her to do her work in peace. But not all were so easily discouraged. A silversmith who lived in the war moon as a representative of her guild overhead the stories, and set off to check just how big the seed of truth in them was.

Who she found was a woman of patience and persistence, clever and focused on the delicacy of her craft. Not once did a fine thread snap under her claws, not once was a cord braided too tightly or fraying ends messed in a tangle. She wove slowly, but diligently, and the few words she spoke were all pointed and purposeful. The silversmith fell in love with her instantly.

Their courtship was swift, and their time together was spent gladly. One night, overcome with fondness for her beloved, the silversmith spent hours in the workshop working on a fitting gift she might present to her, something brilliant and never before created, everlasting like the Shape. What she forged was a scalpel — long and silver and infinitely precise, feather-light and as sharp as the edge between realms. No thread it would cut ever frayed. She gave it to the silkweaver, so that in her work she would always have her love’s aid.

When the time came to return the lease and Savathûn demanded her favourite craftswoman back, the silkweaver trembled. She knew of the ebb and flow of the Sea of Screams, of errant currents which carried the royal courts close together and drifting apart with no reason but the fickle whims of gods. She knew that if she left the war moon, she might never see her beloved again. Thus she went to plead with Xivu Arath.

“Please keep me,” she begged. “My time in your Court has honed my skill; I will make for you a tabard softer than the King’s silk robe. I will weave wavelengths of sound into the fabric for your banners so that they scream and scream forever. I will braid the light of the Umber Sun into luminescent threads to drag behind your throne as a proof of your dominance. Please keep me.”

“It’s not enough,” Xivu Arath said. “Your return was to be a token my of love to my sister. If you want me to keep you, I demand you give me your love in return.”

It was a cruel offer. But the silkweaver was a cunning bastard — she had, after all, been raised at the feet of Savathûn’s throne — and so she pulled out the silver scalpel and presented it in stretched-out hands.

“This blade had been forged in worship,” she said, “to be the perfect extension of its maker, sharp with her sharpness and beautiful with her beauty, so that she would always be with me whenever I held it. Thus I was never without my love. I offer it now to you.”

Xivu Arath was impressed by the silkweaver’s boldness and wit, and accepted. From that day on the two craftswomen lived in the war god’s brood, never again separate, reshaping the universe under their claws into beauty and terror.

When Savathûn came, at last, to Xivu Arath to question about her end of the bargain, the war that ensued cost each brood two dozen warships and one common war moon acquired from the Qugu system. As they scuffled for the final victory, Xivu Arath pierced Savathûn’s carapace with the silver scalpel, and its infinitely sharp edge sunk deep into the godly flesh, puncturing the heart. Thus Savathûn received her sister’s gift, and the war was concluded.

(Read both on Ao3 here and here.)

[little-shiny-sharpies]

Can we acknowledge Wrathion eating the heart of the thunder king this expansion blizzard???

Can we PLEASE acknowledge it???

[hypixelskyblock]

i think the new worst dungeons player has been found

[plumsaffron]

Here's something from dec 14-17 @kuu-asaur

Basically this thread reply starts with.

Luka pfp saying the models between kids and adults are very distinct. Cerise only seems older but that's all.

Then the Op says oh I'm 23 but people think I'm 16.

Which easily convinces the Luka pfp to be convinced that she made be an adult by that logic (but that should make it void considering the previous statement of looks older since you know people younger still made be seen as older.) that she is an adult.

Why?

Cause Lila flirting with Adrien means she has to be.

Really?

I'm gonna laugh in episode Felix now (would Marinette qualify too? Idrc. It's really dumb take)

Other replies are she's: 40 or idk she's ugly bitter old woman

old girl in her twenties passing 14

Idk I hope she gets arrested for false identities because it's illegal and she's going to hell.

Hmph illegal huh? That's nice. I guess Marino and Felix are going too.

Sigh why are these humans like this? What does wanting this do?

They rather eat raw meats and ignore ramifications of illnesses from their folly

They got that Esther from Orphan kink again I guess.

[aussielight]

[joncronshawauthor]

22 Unmissable Fantasy Books of 2022: Your Ultimate Guide

Another year, another towering pile of epic fantasy books hitting the shelves. Let’s shine a spotlight on 22 brilliant fantasy novels from 2022 that you simply mustn’t miss. No tedious prologues here, just top-notch action, imagination, and maybe the odd goblin who meets the business end of a battleaxe. Babel by R.F. Kuang In this dark academia fantasy, students at a university hold dangerous…

[madarashipslicerromancedicer]

Will he dodge?

pfft pathetic.

Very pathetic crowman