#sussurus

[impmage]

They show up in the novel ‘Wee Free Men’ by Terry Pratchett, along with the word ‘susurrus’.

noun: susurrus

whispering, murmuring, or rustling.

"the susurration of the river"

[chronivore]

Sussurus

[humofnight]

the NYT live feed keeps showing people but i dooooon’t knoooow who they are

i need the sports commentator version of this. why are we zoomed in on this man. why do we care about him. is it because he wore a light grey suit instead of a mid to dark grey suit

[tuxxydo]

literally my favorite vocal performance in any video game ever

[vermaux]

I decided to ditch the deep voices I usually go for for gods. Vermaux’s character....well, he’s kind of a skeevy, whiny bastard (which is totally in line with a Skaven, especially the whiny part).

Harlan Ellison was my pick in that case. He kind of reminds me of Rasknitt’s Voice, particularly in the context of the game. Harlan was the writer of I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream and the unhinged manner in which he reads the book is sort of the cadance and character I imagine from the Horned Rat. I DID add some effects and pitch down like a semitone and a half though.

[skxrbrand]

:3

[steblynkaagain]

Reblog and put in the tags your favourite obscure / rare piece of music. Can be anything - a song, artist, OST, disc etc.

Also add if it was / is difficult to find, if you want.

[neep-neep-neep]

Auden will come into Frey's room all "You mentioned that the demon speaks to you in your mind unbidden and sees what is around you and I was helping the wounded and I thought I might..." and will trail off, a roll of bandage in her hands. And Frey's ears will perk up and she will hop up off her bed and do a spin aerial off the wall until she's in front of Auden. Cuff will be all "Frey? What is she doing? FREY--"

And Auden meanwhile is wrapping the Cuff!Tattoo thing on Frey's right arm in bandages and he keeps whining and making threats and Frey's smile is growing because it's like putting a towel over a bird's cage to convince them it's night.

"...give you some more privacy," Auden finally finishes, tearing off the end of the bandage and tucking in the end. "Is it too tight?"

"It's perfect!" Frey yells at her arm in glee, "You see that? No, you don't! You're in timeout!" She wraps Auden in one of their frequent hugs. "I can't wait to go for a run all by myself."

"Actually, Frey, I wanted to go with you."

And Cuff is all "You can't be serious" "did you seriously let her cover me up so you could go on a date" "I hope you both choke on your meals" "don't you dare make me dirty!"

[autumnsunshine10]

Cherry on Top

Ocean between head and heart

Bermuda Triangle says hi

Nimbostratus on the horizon

I floss my smile while being tossed

Amid the surf's soothing sussurus

Lulled to dream and find myself

Lost in a paradise made for two

I become the cherry on top

Moonlight lambada

Keeping perfect time

Strange magic through line

[sweetestsometimes]

River

River, grey, glass-clear, doubling mountains that encase you, holder of spheres —strands of pearls, flowing up. Cumulus garlands of torn cotton hang above. The sussurus of the earth’s breath passes through trees’ limbs and leafy fingers.

Arcadians communed with nature & you will too; consider the blackberries invading sweetly, sharply. Honeybees waltz gently to perfect, butter-yellow petals. The river, cellophane-clear.

[chronivore]

Sussurus

[greatandholypangolin]

Wee Free Men - An Unprofessional Diagnosis Of The Characters

alright, this is likely going to be a long post and likely going to be an unfinished post, but I’m a firm believer that Terry Pratchett was neurodivergent and has projected his neurodivergency onto every character in discworld, so I’m going to be making headcanon diagnosises for every character, starting with Wee Free Men because I’ve been reading Tiffany Aching and fuck chronological order.

Note- I’m only doing the neurodivergent traits from THIS BOOK because I’m not combing through the whole mini series, I’m may be stupid but I’m not an idiot.

Tiffany Aching

starting off strong with our main character. I believe she’s definitely autistic and I’m going to just list autistic traits she shows with quotes to support them.

Not knowing what was socially acceptable, the unspoken rules. ‘she’d read the dictionary all the way through. No one told her you weren’t supposed to’ ‘I buried her cat […] someone had to’

word association that based on sensations ‘sussurus […] Tiffany liked the taste of the word. It made her think of mysterious people in long cloaks whispering important secrets behind a door’

not having the “correct” emotional reactions to things ‘I ought to be scared, but I’m just angry’

Being ignored or left out of things ‘People tended to leave Tiffany alone’

taking things literally (~measuring a soup plate after being told Jenny had eyes as big as soup plates~), ‘a girl was as beautiful as the day is long. Well, which day? In midwinter it hardly ever got light’

Lacking a proper understanding of danger ‘she used her brother as bait’

being very blunt in her speech ‘are you a witch?’

noticing things that others don’t, being observant (~do I really need examples? It happens so often~)

questioning things generally accepted because they didn’t make sense to her ‘The wicked old witch. And Tiffany had thought: where’s the evidence?’

I’ve come to the horrible realisation that I’ve gotten 9 autistic traits from only 2 chapters of this 14 chapter book, and only one character too. This may be a much larger task than I initially thought.

[johaerys-writes]

As Fate Would Have It

Achilles/Patroclus | E | Ch 1/?

My (very late, oops) contribution for Day 1 of @patrochillesweek!! Patroclus is chosen to be Achilles' therapon, but he really isn't very happy about that. Canon divergence with a side of omegaverse 👀

Read here or on AO3!

The packed earth of the training yard is warm beneath Patroclus’ bare feet. The midday sun burns bright above him; the ancient olive tree in the middle of the yard stands frozen, not a single leaf stirring on its branches. Patroclus shifts uncomfortably, a droplet of sweat coursing down his temple. 

“Look, he comes,” Eurydamas whispers beside him. The boys, arranged in a neat line that reaches from one end of the yard to the other, fall instantly silent, standing at attention. 

Patroclus glances towards the entrance. The guards appear first, their forms outlined hazily by the shadows beneath the loggia. They come to stand at either side of the marble steps leading into the yard as the king descends: Peleus of Phthia, and next to him, his son. 

Achilles.

Patroclus has only seen the boy in passing during the months he’s spent there. He rarely ever comes to the yard where the exiles and the soldiers in Peleus’ employ train; in the evenings, he sometimes comes to the mess hall where the men eat, but even then he usually sits too far away, or is constantly surrounded by his entourage of young boys eager for his attention, for Patroclus to ever have spoken to him. He has only ever watched him from a distance, from the corner of his eye, as he wolfs down his bread and cheese and whatever else the servants bring them: his cold and distant beauty, his aloof charm, the petty juggling tricks he sometimes perform that have his companions and acolytes howling, that smile that never quite reaches his eyes. Suffering their company only because he has to, because it’s what his station dictates, no doubt. 

Princelings, Patroclus thinks with disdain. He’d had his fill of them back when he lived in Opus—hell, he used to be one himself. Never the kind to preen, though. Menoetius had made sure of that.  

He stands tall, waiting for the king and the prince to come closer. A faint breeze blows now, cooling the sweat on Patroclus’ back. It’s a welcome reprieve from the heat, however brief; having trained under the glaring sun all day, Patroclus will take what he can get. 

“It is my joy and pleasure to see so many fine young men joining Phthia’s ranks,” Peleus says in his sonorous voice which echoes through the yard, his affable smile on his lips. “My son, Achilles, has come to see you, too. Today, one of you lads may be chosen to be his therapon: his trusted and most loyal companion. So look sharp, eh?”

A sussurus of murmurs and surprised whispers ripples through the gathered boys. Talk of this, of Achilles choosing a therapon at last, has been the talk of the palace for months now, ever since the prince came of age. Some have even been saying that he’s been too late to choose; that most princes choose a therapon as soon as they can lift their swords and spears, but the prince never spends too long in any of the boys’ company, not even those of his own family. Always keeping to himself, they say, never letting anyone come close.

And it’s easy to understand why. With that cold face and that cold, cruel, scrutinizing gaze of his sweeping over the boys, it’s no wonder he has no real friends. Most gods consider humans to be lesser, beneath them; what’s to stop a demigod for feeling the same way as his goddess mother?

Patroclus’ calloused fingers gather into a fist. He wants none of this. He doesn’t want a spoiled halfbreed to look him up and down and size him up to be nothing but a glorified bodyguard and manservant. He’d rather go back to his training, to swing his sword and his spear and spar with his peers, and be done with all this nonsense.  

But Achilles has barely even started. He’s at the head of the line, his eyes sharp with focus and attention as he takes each boy in, one by one. The wind combs through his long blond hair; it burns bright in the sunlight, brighter still than his golden circlet, like a naked flame: seeing him in broad daylight for once, Patroclus can almost catch the playful coppery highlights hiding in the gold. 

Eurydamas holds his breath when he draws near, struggling to meet his eyes. Achilles stares at him for a long moment, ruthless in his scrutiny; Patroclus almost thinks the princeling has settled on his blasted therapon and they can all finally be dismissed, but the gods clearly have no interest in smiling upon him. Achilles sniffs sharply, turning away. 

Patroclus can almost feel his friend deflating beside him. And that, too, is cause enough for Patroclus’ annoyance to flare: Eurydamas is one of the best with sword and shield in their group, and has won countless matches, even with older and seasoned soldiers. Patroclus would be honoured to one day have him by his side at a shield wall, to battle enemies and gain land and loot and glory for Phthia. How does that boy think he is, to dismiss someone like him so easily?

He is fuming by the time Achilles stands before him. He is shorter than Patroclus; he tilts his face up to the sun to look at him. 

Patroclus knows he won’t be chosen, but he won’t be meek about it. He won’t just stand there and wait while the prince decides whether he’s good enough or not. Patroclus is done having others appraise him and find him wanting. He meets Achilles’ gaze squarely, as if in challenge.

He looks so different up close. He looks young, a few years younger than Patroclus at least. His features are fine-boned and elegant, speaking of his aristocratic birth, but there’s a sharpness to them that doesn’t look natural. His lips are full and soft-looking and sweetly-pink, like a girl’s, but the way they’re pressed tight in stubborn concentration doesn’t leave much inviting about them. His eyes are the most vibrant green Patroclus has ever seen and a touch too big for his face, and the way their dark pupils contract reminds him of a lizard, or a strange kind of bird. Patroclus would almost call him pretty, if he didn’t look so… inhuman. 

Achilles leans forward just a little, almost imperceptibly, and sniffs sharply at the air again. His nostrils flare and he blinks, those unsettling pupils contracting briefly before widening back into circles that focus on Patroclus in a flat-out, unforgiving stare.  

“I have chosen,” he declares. 

Becoming a therapon is… not how Patroclus had imagined it. 

After the boys scatter from the yard and return to their duties, grumbling disappointment under their breaths and some of them giving him jealous stares, he is led to the baths. Servants take him out of his dusty and sweaty chiton and scrub his skin with soaps and damp clothes, then lather his body with oil—the expensive kind, the kind that smells of cardamom and cinnamon and roses, not the plain olive oil the soldiers and servants use. 

He is given a new chiton painted a deep crimson as well, and shiny new shoulder pins, a heavy ornate belt and sturdy, well-made sandals, the leather still smelling fresh from the tannery. Then they bring him a sword and a shield, a helmet and bracers, like the ones the guards wear but better, and before he can ask why they’re giving him all of those things for free, he is led summarily back out and into Phthia’s grand hall. 

Everyone falls quiet when he walks in. Peleus and Achilles are already there, dressed in their finery. Even the goddess Thetis is there, Achilles’ nereid mother. She is taller even than the tallest man in the wide room; she stands beside Achilles, her dress a light seafoam green that seems to stir like underwater currents are touching it. Her ink black hair is long and her skin is bone-white and gleaming, and she seems to leech the colour off of everything else around her. Her features remind Patroclus vaguely of Achilles’, in the sharpness of the jaw and the large eyes, but where his eyes are green, hers are pitch black pits, swallowing up the white. They fall on Patroclus and he shivers, but her gaze doesn’t feel as cold and ruthless in its appraisal as her son’s. She only seems curious, her nostrils flaring a little in that now familiar way as he comes near. 

Achilles’ chiton is a rich plum colour that complements his colouring, his wrists are adorned with golden cuffs and there are elegant golden rings stacked on his fingers, small rubies and emeralds winking when he moves. He watches Patroclus with a cool, detached expression as Patroclus’ sword clangs and clatters awkwardly against his belt when he walks up the dais. 

“King Peleus,” he says, his voice scratchy and thin in the grand hall. “Queen Thetis. Prince— prince Achilles.” 

Peleus, who had been vaguely frowning in Patroclus’ general direction, now smiles pleasantly at him.  

“Let the ceremony begin.”

It’s a lengthy, boring affair. Patroclus is made to stand by Achilles and listen while he recites a long speech about honour and the duties of a prince and future king, about his gloried ancestors, about Phthia’s proud past. Then Patroclus is asked to come forward and swear his oaths to the prince. He swears to uphold his prince’s honour, to follow him in battle and share his glory and his spoils, to give his life for him if need be; to protect him from evil, from harm, to give him sound counsel, to keep his friendships and honour his clansmen as if they were his own; to put his prince’s interests and wellbeing above his own; to love him with all his heart, for better or for worse, until death do them part, as fate would have it. 

Which is… not what Patroclus expected, if he’s being perfectly honest. Therapons, as far as Patroclus is concerned, are meant to follow their lords in wars, to cook their meat and serve their guests, and that’s where their duties end, most of the time. This—whatever this is— sounds like a bad farce of a wedding, only with far more vows involved. Patroclus isn’t quite sure what he’s gotten himself into. 

When the oath-taking is finally finished, a priest of Apollo comes forth with a cloud of incense to bless them, and a knife to bind them with oaths of blood. Patroclus’ eyes water and his palm stings painfully where the steel bites; their blood is joined in a bronze goblet filled with wine, and they both drink. The wine is strong and heady; Patroclus’ head is swimming when he finishes. 

The priest finally steps back and his vision clears. He blinks tears from his eyes and finds Achilles watching him with that same, unreadable expression. As if still trying to size him up, after everything’s said and done. 

Patroclus studiously ignores him, the cut in his palm throbbing with dull pain. 

The feast seems to drag on just as much as the ceremony did. He is given a seat next to the prince, of course, and the dishes served are much richer than those the soldiers usually eat, but Patroclus has very little appetite. The helmet feels too heavy, bearing down on his head, and the air in the hall too stuffy. He bides his time while the night wears on, carefully avoiding to even look in Achilles’ direction, lest he find those inhuman eyes looking right back at him.

Before the feast is over, and while Achilles talks with his mother in hushed whispers, Peleus gestures at Patroclus to come close. 

“You are the prince’s sworn man now,” he tells him. “You know what this means, yes?”

Patroclus should think he does, after hours of swearing to every possible way he will be serving him for the rest of his life. He nods, guarded. 

“Whatever the prince needs, whatever he might ask of you— any help or assistance he might need, you will give it to him. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my king,” Patroclus says, puzzled. He thought this had been made clear, but the intensity with which the king is awaiting his answer now gives him pause. “I will.”

Peleus studies him for a moment longer, then he nods. He dismisses him with a flick of his hand, returning to his earlier conversation. 

Patroclus follows Achilles out of the hall after the feast is done and most of the guests are snoring on the tables. Thankfully, the prince is quiet while they walk, evidently in as little mood for chit chat as Patroclus is. 

Patroclus escorts him up to his room. The halls are silent, only the torches sputtering along the walls. Patroclus stands beside the door as Achilles opens it. He doesn’t dare walk inside. He isn’t quite sure what he’s supposed to do: is he meant to stand guard all night while the prince gets his beauty sleep? The prospect doesn’t seem particularly inviting.  

“I—um.” He clears his throat when his voice cracks. “Am I dismissed now? I would really like to return to my quarters until the morning, if that’s alright with you. My lord,” he adds, as an afterthought.

Achilles blinks at him, the flames of the torches catching in the golden flecks in his eyes in a very distracting manner. “These are your quarters.”

It is Patroclus’ turn to gape now. Achilles walks in, leaving the door open, and Patroclus hesitates before following. His room is spacious, with a wide window overlooking the beach. The air smells of salt, but there’s another underlying scent that seems to permeate the space. It’s warm and sweet and vaguely comforting. Patroclus thinks it reminds him of something, something pleasant and familiar, but he can’t quite grasp it. 

Achilles lights the lamps by his bed; the furniture is sparse but well made, and there are paintings on the walls, of lions and dolphins and fish that Patroclus has never before seen. The colours are vibrant and the painted forms seem so lifelike, it’s like they’re moving on the stone. 

“Do you like them?” Achilles asks.

"Yes."

“I painted them.” 

“Oh,” Patroclus breathes. He didn’t know the prince painted. He doesn’t really know anything about him. “They’re… nice.” 

Achilles’ lip twitches; it takes Patroclus a moment to realise that maybe it’s a smile. “You can sleep there,” he tells him, gesturing at the pallet that has been arranged at a corner of the room, along with a chest for his personal belongings. “I hope it is to your liking.” 

“Not that my liking matters very much, I suppose,” Patroclus mutters. He doesn’t like that his belongings were handled without his permission. Not that he has many, but the little he has he guards with zealous care. He suddenly misses Eurydamas and Automedon and the other boys at the barracks, their late-night conversations and their board games. Patroclus has tried hard to make a life for himself in Phthia. It doesn’t sit right with him that it has all been uprooted like that, on a princeling’s whim. 

Achilles doesn’t speak for a long moment. His silence is a sharp, cold thing. “You don’t seem very happy with your new appointments, Patroclus.” 

Patroclus clenches his jaw and bites down a few of the more astringent responses he could give. “They’re perfectly adequate, thank you.”

The answer doesn’t seem to placate Achilles. “You aren’t very convincing,” he says. He tilts his chin up defiantly, in an effort to stare Patroclus down. He only succeeds in looking like a petulant child. “It is considered a great honour to be a therapon to a prince, you know.”

“Yes, everyone keeps telling me that,” Patroclus says bitterly. “But I’m not so sure. Honour is meant to be earned, not handed out as if to a beggar, or a dog.”

“A dog? A beggar?” Achilles’ nostrils flare. He takes a step closer, his green-gold eyes gleaming dangerously. “Such scorn from someone who was training to be a common footsoldier just this morning. Many of the boys back at the yard would beg for this chance.”

“Then you should have chosen one of them, perhaps,” Patroclus shoots back. He glances down at the expensive chiton and his brand new arms, and hates how heavy and foreign they feel on him. “I didn’t ask for any of this.” 

Achilles tenses. He stands before him, not a single muscle twitching save for the pulse that flutters at the base of his throat. It is not natural to be so still, nor for a gaze to be so penetrating, ready to flay him to the bone. Achilles is close enough to him now for this to feel dangerous, but Patroclus somehow isn’t afraid.

That sweet, comforting scent he had caught when stepping into the room is stronger now, more potent. It almost comes as a surprise when it finally dawns on Patroclus that it is coming from Achilles himself. 

He doesn’t expect the slight tinge of disappointment when Achilles steps away from him. His jaw is set and his eyes hard, displeasure practically oozing out of him. “Well, you’re stuck with me now,” he says harshly. “So I’d suggest you get used to it.” 

He turns his back to Patroclus and strides to his bed. The flame of the lamps winks out, plunging the room in darkness, save for the moon’s glow. Achilles, seemingly uncaring that Patroclus is there, takes the pins of his chiton off his shoulders and starts undressing. 

Patroclus only has the chance to glimpse the curve of his neck and a smooth shoulder, the channel of his spine gleaming before he turns around, giving him some privacy. His own pallet doesn’t seem as comfortable or inviting as the prince’s wide bed, or even his old bed at the barracks, but Patroclus makes himself take off his weapons, his clothes, his shoes, and slithers under the starched covers.

He has a lot to get used to.

~~

Thank you for reading!! Likes & reblogs and welcome and appreciated <3

[cannibal-nightmares]

For the ask thing: 1, 11, 27, 30 😁

from the ask thing heh

1. what are 3 things you’d say shaped you into who you are? Music, Doctor Who, and�� The third seems to have stumped me. My sister (whom I havent seen in 17 years?) a crippling fear of a higher power? Growing up poor? Of course stories of trauma would be easy and true to answer with, but I’ve sat on this ask since you sent it and I am not certain what I could place as a definitive third. I could answer with names of my friends, but we shaped each other, didn’t we?

11. what do you consider to be romance? I’m not 100% sure I can observe romance in a traditional sense. I like this question because I don’t know how to answer it. I guess I can start by specifying that “romance” is between partners, right? I’m not sure if “romance” is supposed to be an act, but that’s how it feels to me. While I don’t prefer it, I don’t see “acting” for someone else as an inherently bad thing in this context. I mean, isn’t that what birds do? Court? Hahah uhh.. I think romance is loyalty. Romance is testing boundaries with someone, and not even necessarily in the intimate sense, but facing fears in hand with someone. I have a sort of Hannibal-esque lens over what picturesque image “romance” could be, something much more brutal and shimmering like onyx under the moon. Romance is whatever you mutually declare it with someone else. Romance is what you create with intention and expectation. Romance is blood, isn’t it?

Now, “what is love?” Acts of care. But “love” to me is not exclusive between partners, but towards friends and strangers, as well.

27. any nicknames? “My first name is a random set of numbers and letters and other alphanumerics that changes hourly forever My last name, a thousand vowels fading down a sinkhole to a sussurus, couldn't just be “John Doe” or “Bingo” My address, a made up language written out in living glyphs lifted from demonic literature and religious text Telephone, uncovered by purveyors of the Ouija, then checked against the CBGB women's room graffiti My social, a sudoku; my age is obscure; my 'in-case-of-emergency' is in the daisies chasing birds My medical history is a course at SUNY Buffalo: Charlatan psychiatry and troubleshooting undertow” [ x ]

Nah, haha, I see what you’re doing here, heh. As an artist, cannibal. As a familiar, Rocky. Something more formal, Will. If you want to flatter me and fluster me beyond words… kin names… I’m picky in stupid-specific ways about them, so I don’t talk about them. (Stein, Franken, Vitya… sometimes Nic calls me Smokey and doc hahaha.. my goodness..) I’m in total denial of having a “preferred” name. I do have one but it’s kept guarded for now. I sincerely wish “who are you” and “what is your name” was as simple of a question as it is for everyone else, but it just isn’t. I’ve gone by all kinds of names for too-practical reasons; anyone who knows me by any other title has special reserve to call me by those names. I go by Rocky at work and in my musical shenanigans and I think it fits me as though I were a cartoon character. It's actually the name of my late grandfathers dog.

30. what’s one thing that never fails to make you happy/happier? These days I am having to decrypt the difference between happiness and mania but I can tell you what makes me content and what I value in feeling safe/calm:

A hot cup of coffee, silence/summer ambiance, natural lighting. Stuffed animals.

I guess something that makes me “happy” is being in costume. I love a good costume time, especially when I get to make other people happy w said costumes (its part of the reason I started fursuiting back in 2013). Singing, I suppose, too. When I seek joy, I either look to finishing a project or enriching someone else.

Thank you for the ask, sincerely ^^

[writinginnorthnorfolk]

On Opening a Book

earthy musty vanilla redolenceerupts into comforting scentsof paper inky words dreams stories poetry from past agespaper that was born in reamscut neatly into pages book weight in happy handshas a balance of coverand leaves caressed by fingers pristine dog-eared annotated abusedthe satisfying sussurus as they turnand the individual paper colour white yellowed crackling edgescrisp fresh print…