#that white-feathered arrow...

[curlytsunamiart]

player select screen

[octastims]

An Edda (Worldless) stimboard with snow, blizzards, storms, stars, feathers, wings, swords and bows for Anon! I hope you like it!

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[fisher-price]

Cupid Puppet Stimboard!!

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[stimmy--cryptid]

turin from totk for anon!

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[vannpirestims]

"Almost Human" album by Voltaire Stimboard for myself

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[ak1w1i]

Yellow crested cockatoo stimboard!!

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[lohotine]

``Truth is the most important virtue.``

Pure Vanilla x Reader

CW; Some religious tones (brief mention of the existence of a god, comparing Pure Vanilla to an angel), Disturbing discriptions (gore, though only as a discptor of how the reader feels.) Angst, unorganized writing

Adorned in whites akin to glistening stars, accompanied by the warmest of jasmine and the brightest of gold;

With every breath comes a feint melody and a silent song only angels would be able to hear.

Many have asked themselves;

What is divinity?

And as he stands before you, otherworldly and opulent, you begin to whisper, and one word falls from your lips;

"This."

A being, mayhap too pure for this world, gifting everyone the ultimate acuity.

Are people deserving of him?

No matter what your answer is, he remains here, giving his heart out to anyone and everyone, whether they are in need of it or not.

His voice; a choir

His touch; soft, as his fingers gently cup your face. They are like feathers, and they gently wipe away your tears.

Tears that look like pearls, or maybe even diamonds, as they prick the corners of your eyes.

You think it ironic how the gods created tears to be made out of both water and salt;

Two things that suposedly give life to people.

Yet, you are not sad

Far from it, actually.

Because you are with him.

And you ask;

Would you let me dwell forever by your side?

And though Pure Vanilla would hate to break the heart you've so graciously shown him; he simply cannot accept it.

A prayer you hope with the entirety of your being- body and soul and mind- that he'd be able to return.

To not love you fully would be like not loving you at all; at least in his eyes.

And he can not devote himself to you in the way you would for him.

Because he does not want the others to be dammed simply because he loves you.

And so he responds;

I'm sorry, but I can't love you in the way you hope for me to.

And because Pure Vanilla loves everyone; he can't love anyone.

Because Pure Vanilla's heart belongs to everyone: and so at the same time, no one in particular.

So you wish; so desperately and fully, that he would lie to you just this once.

So that when it begins to weep, and so that when it begins to bleed; it may hurt just a little less.

To maybe wrap your heart in the softest silk, or maybe even satin if that's what he'd prefer, and then place it apun a glistening, marble pedestal;

But he would never grant you even the smallest lie, and in turn, the smallest bit of respite.

After all, is he not supposed to be virtuous?

So instead, he holds you close, and you can't help but think;

Why must he be so kind, even when he brutally destroys you?

Why must this angel smile at you while liquidating your heart?

And he whispers into your ears about how sorry he is for not being able to love you.

but all you can hear is how he doesn't love you.

And it's not his fault.

Yet, knowing that it's yours doesn't feel any better.

Pure Vanilla continues to speak-- apologizing--yet his words still sting like that of one thousand arrows grazing your arms and legs.

How you yearn for him to be able to heal these pains, too!

But how can he? When they're not really there?

How can something that hurts so much not really be there?

So your tears continue to fall.

How weak you have become! How sorrowful...

And yet, these tears, he wipes away too.

As if they were never there?

And with those tears, you wish he'd wipe away the emotions you've held for him.

As if they were never there?

Would forgetting those emotions- your love for him- truly be worth it?

And when you listen once more; he is still expressing his guilt.

And you have no doubt that he is being truthful when he says he is sorry.

After all, he would never speak anything that isn't the truth!

And sometimes, that pains you more than if he would just lie.

When he slams you into the ground, crushing your skull and mind, and shreds your heart into small bits of blood and flesh and tears and love, but you know it's true when he says he doesn't want to;

That truth doesn't make the wounds hurt any less.

Yet despite this; Pure Vanilla believes, without even a fraction of a doubt;

That truth is the most important virtue.

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part sixteen —other parts

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader words: 3.2k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn't here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

"I can't believe I woke up early for this."

You loosen your muscles, turning to dead weight in Ghost's arms, before using the awkward position to slip away. 

"No one said you had to be here," Ghost throws over his shoulder before his gaze fleets back to yours. "Good. Again."

Blue groans as you reposition yourself for the basic defense maneuver. You can see why she'd find this boring— Ghost started you off with a move so basic it was almost insulting when he explained it. But you quickly realized his reasoning. Each time you do it, your pulse tampers down less and less while in his arms. He's had to remind you a few times to "Breathe, Twix"— the order so quietly uttered into the shell of your ear that Blue likely didn't even notice. Perhaps you have grown used to taking orders from him, or maybe having Blue close by is helping, because you've been able to ward off the threat of panic so far.

"Fine, I'm out of here," Blue rolls her eyes the second you've finished the move again. "Let me know when you—" she jabs a finger at Ghost, "—decide to make things more interesting." As she leaps off the log she'd been perched upon, she adds: "Oh, and don't get too close, Ghost. She might bite."

"So I've heard."

Heat rises to your cheeks. And then— you're alone with him. You take a swig of water from the canister Blue lent you to ignore the awkward feeling in your chest. "Again?" You wipe your mouth. "Or have I passed your test?"

"Test?" he repeats, the gravel in his voice rolling over the word as his brow lifts in question.

"Well, I haven't... had a repeat of last time, and it's been an hour. I think I've proved that I'm ready for something a little more..."

"More what?" 

More interesting.

"Hand-to-hand, I guess. Something harder."

He rubs his jaw, as if to feign consideration. "Right, then. Let's try another one."

The next one he shows you is still simple, except you fail every other time. Basically, he gets behind you and you have to sidestep to avoid the trap of his arms. Somehow, Ghost's movements are light as a feather even though he's built like a rock. 

But then you get better at it. The next two days pass in much the same manner until you start to react a bit faster. He teaches you a few more basic tactics. How to wriggle your wrist out of someone's hold. How to avoid being grabbed from the front by rolling to the ground. All defense. After hours spent with him, he doesn't even have to remind you to breathe anymore. Chopping wood in the evenings helps, too. You go to bed exhausted and wake up ready to practice before Ghost even touches your shoulder.

On the third day, he gets you up even earlier. You cram your wool-covered toes into boots, confine your hair in a hasty bun, and follow him to the clearing that has become your makeshift training ground. It takes you a moment to register that some things are different: his boots have been replaced by sneakers, and his jeans by loose, black gym shorts. The exposed skin is strange, making your eyes widen. If Blue were awake, she'd certainly comment. 

His calves mirror the strength of the rest of him, and on the left leg, swirling ink catches your eye, reminiscent of the tattoos you discovered when tending to his wound. Skulls and a dagger; perhaps corny, but fitting for him.

"Have you tried it?" His voice cuts through your thoughts.

"Tried what?"

"The bow."

A white cloud forms around your mouth as you nod. "Needed some getting used to, like you said."

Yesterday you had a hard time shooting a chipmunk you wanted for lunch, so you spent the early afternoon firing arrows at oaks until the new bow started to feel like an extension of your limbs again.

"Let me know if I need to adjust the string."

"Will do," you say, almost mumbling.

When you reach the familiar circle of trees, you bounce once on your toes and crack your knuckles. Ghost retrieves something from his pocket. A roll of gauze. It is tossed at you without warning, and your hands fumble to grab it. 

"Wrap up," he commands. "Your hands will thank you for it."

You look up at him, brows raised, but begin covering your palms and knuckles. When you're done, you throw the roll back to him. Ghost stretches his arms above his head and splays his feet into a firm stance, jerking his chin at you in a go-ahead motion. Your brows furrow as you try to understand what the fuck he's doing.

"Go on. Get ready."

"Um. Ready for what?"

"A little hand-to-hand."

Your mouth falls open. "What?"

He shrugs. "That's what you wanted, right? I think you're ready for it."

"That's not what I meant," you almost laugh, shaking your head. "I didn't mean I want to— to fight you. I just meant we don't have to stick to the basics."

"We won't." There is the slightest trace of amusement in his voice, so faint you wonder if it's even there. "You have ten seconds to get ready, Twix."

"I don't even—" you sputter, eyes flying open. If you weren't awake before, you are now. He seems completely serious, his hands in fists and his shoulders squared.

"Five."

"Oh, fuck me," you exhale, balling up your bandaged hands. Did he get you up at this hour so there was no chance of Blue joining? He didn't want her to watch him finally annihilate you? You don't think he would seriously hurt you, not after everything, but that doesn't mean your heart doesn't begin to thump wildly when the seconds are up. Neither of you makes the first move; you are focused on keeping yourself distant, and he is circling you like a predator, flicking his eyes along the length of you. 

"What the fuck is that stance? I could just tap you and you'd fall over." His amusement has faded. "Is that how I showed you to stand when chopping wood?"

You shake your head, teeth gritted, and fix it, spreading your boots against the soil. 

"Better."

Then, he's lunging. You forget everything about your stance and prance to the side like a skittish deer. There is a moment of relief when you successfully dodge him, only for it to abruptly end when he darts around your back and hooks an arm around your neck. Your heart skips over a beat. Holy shit is he fast. 

"Be aware of your surroundings at all times," he chastises against the top of your hair. His hold is not aiming to fully restrain you, so when you claw your nails into his arm, it loosens and you slip away, staggering three strides before facing him with your fists up.

"What's the point of raising your fists if you're not going to hit me?" Ghost circles you again, and you have to shift your feet to keep up with him. "Come on, nurse. Where should you aim?"

"You're too tall." Your chest heaves. "I... I can't reach your face or neck without you blocking."

"Use the height difference to your advantage. Reach places that I can't."

You pause to think about it, studying him.

Ghost almost growls. "Stop hesitating. I could have killed you by now."

A mix of annoyance and determination makes you leap forward, jabbing your knuckles at the part of him where you know his liver would be. He captures you by the elbow before the blow can land, and sends you stumbling to the side, a few wisps of hair cascading over your face.

"Liver. Not bad. I might've let you have it if you moved quicker."

A hiss leaves your lips as you whirl around and punch directly into his core this time. He allows the hit, but your knuckles ram into solid muscle instead of the vulnerable stomach you hoped for, and you recoil with a wave of your hand, cussing under your breath.

"You hurt yourself more than you hurt me."

"Well, should I just kick you in the dick then?" you retort without thinking, flexing your fingers. Luckily, the gauze absorbed most of the damage. 

"That's always an option."

His tone is serious, to the point that you almost give it a try, but then he's closing in on you again, sending you back to the defensive. He doesn't hold back. You run in circles and duck frantically, earning a few hits to your ribs. He doesn't use enough force to send you down to the ground, but enough to knock the wind out of you. Rapid breaths fire through your lungs and beads of sweat percolate your hairline. Ghost, on the other hand, appears unaffected.

"Fight back," he says in a mild voice; almost bored.

You nearly throw your arms up. "I would if you'd give me a fucking chance."

"You said not to coddle you."

"I'm aware. That doesn't mean you have to—"

Your spine suddenly meets something hard. A tree. He's backed you into it without you even realizing. When Ghost takes another swipe, you dip your head down and then use his recovery time to grab onto a branch and hoist yourself up.

You're barely perched upon it when a hand grips your ankle and drags you back down, an audible gasp reverberating in your chest as you land flat on your back with Ghost on top. His hand quickly cradles the back of your skull before it can crack on a hard tree root, while his other hand captures both of your wrists.

"You good?" Although he is the one who has you effectively pinned, his tone seems sincere. He scans your face from your forehead to your parted lips. 

"Just... peachy." 

His brows furrow. "What was your plan once you got up there?"

Labored breathing splinters your voice. "I didn't have much of a plan, really."

He speaks flatly. "I can tell."

"You had me cornered," you point out.

"You should have been—"

"Aware of my surroundings," you finish for him, exhaling deep through your nose. "I know."

Your eyes shift around, from his covered face to where his chest just barely presses into yours. It's all so close. Uncomfortably close. You can feel the steady pace of his heart against your sternum, and make out the faintest flecks of green in his eyes.

An ounce of fear and something else you can't quite discern balls up in your stomach, making you swallow. You've been pinned like this before and nearly had your face eaten. Ghost simply stares at you, as if waiting for you to make a move, but when you tug on your wrists, his grip doesn't relent.

"Could you... could you maybe get off of me?"

He shifts some weight off you, if only by a little. "Relax and think," he murmurs. "What are your options here?" The curve of his lips tightens before he adds, "Besides biting my nose off. I'd like to keep that for now."

With a sigh, your eyes slide up to the awakening sky. Hues of violet and orange stare down at you. "Do I... do I even have any options? You must weigh like a ton." The words are past your lips before you can shut your mouth. 

"You always have options." 

"Doesn't mean any of them will be effective," you say.

His eyes darken, and the green disappears. "Why do you do that?" 

"Um... do what?"

"Doubt yourself. After all that you have survived." He sounds irritated. 

"As if you haven't doubted me?" You can't help it; you scoff. "You told her I wouldn't come back that time I went on my own. I mean, I'm still weak, remember? No amount of chopping wood will make me as strong as you or those men who almost killed us."

"It's not about strength," he replies.

"That's easy for you to say," you wiggle your wrists for emphasis. "You have nothing to be afraid of. You were cut out for this shit from the start."

"I have everything to be afraid of." His eyes narrow, but his voice softens. "And so were you."

"Me?" Your voice slightly elevates, and a lick of anger curls within you. "I should be in grad school right now, or maybe I would've quit nursing and gone into something useless and hate my life, but I was never meant to kill anyone, let alone fight them. I was meant to be young and stupid and make mistakes. Now, if I make a fucking mistake, it will cost me my life." Your nostrils flare as you huff, sending a piece of hair flying up into his face, and you writhe beneath him. "Get off of me, Ghost."

But he doesn't.

Beats of silence linger in the small gap between your bodies.

You should feel embarrassed for saying all those things, but instead, you think about what he said:

Don't hesitate.

The ball inside you is a fiery mix of emotions that you usually try your damn hardest to ignore and break and shove away.

But now you let it spread through your body like a sizzling tide, from the tips of your fingers down to your toes and... to your knee. Before you can change your mind, you slam it upward as hard as you can into the apex of his groin. 

"Fuck," Ghost mutters, the only sign of any pain aside from the brief moment that he closes his eyes.

His hold loosens only by a little, but it's enough for you to slip out from under him and find your way back to your feet, your chest rising and falling.

He clears his throat after a moment and rises.

"Good." The two of you share a stare-off for a few seconds before he shakes his head, saying again: "Good, Twix. More of that."

You rip your gaze away from him, cheeks hot, and say nothing as you snatch the canister and bring it to your lips, but the water does little to cool you down. 

You shiver in the bitterness of twilight, your fingers red and numb, wishing for a pair of gloves. The fireflies are coming out, dots of luminescence darting around you. You swing the axe down again, throat raw as you grunt, and then you add the broken logs to the growing stack. Sudden light footsteps announce the end of your alone time. 

"It's me," Blue greets kindly. 

You drop the axe, hands feeling stiff, and turn to face her with a breathless smile. "Hey. What are you doing out here?"

"Checking on you. Ghost went hard on you this morning, huh?" she says with a sigh. "I could hear you guys. You were a bit... loud. Made it hard to sleep."

"Not too hard. I'm… I'm good." 

If she is unconvinced, she doesn't comment on it. Rather, she hugs you. A warm one. You return the embrace before she pulls away.

"I also came because I wanted to invite you to a bonfire."

"Bonfire?"

"Well, with all your..." her eyes flicker to the pile of logs you've conjured over the past hour. "...special workouts, we have a lot of wood now. I told Ghost to make a big fire outside and we can cook dinner over it. It'll be fun, come on. Ghost is making tea, too."

Soon enough, your sore fingers are tingling, holding a warm, ceramic mug of tea. Ghost chucks another bundle of wood into the fire, spitting out smoke and embers, and sits on a tree stump while Blue takes the folding chair. Your hair is down, tucked behind your ears, and a patchwork quilt Blue grabbed from her room lays across your lap. The mug burns pleasantly against your lips when you take a sip, the herbal taste sliding down your throat. Whatever plants he used to make it work together perfectly. It reminds you of the tea your mom used to make when you were sick.

"Do you like it more well-done or is this okay?" Blue asks, meticulously spinning the skewered squirrel meat over the fire.

"That's good, thank you."

Ghost cooks their dinner, and the three of you eat and sip in a comforting silence. You avoid looking at him, opting for the starry sky above your head, where bold stars beam even brighter than the fireflies. It's quite nice. When you're done, you toss the bones into the fire and listen to them splinter.

Blue breaks the silence. "Would you rather be burned alive or be attacked by a bunch of squirrels with rabies?"

You take another sip of tea. "How many squirrels, exactly?"

She taps her chin. "One hundred."

"I think if it were fifty, I could handle them. One hundred, probably not. I'll choose being burned."

She makes a face. "That is a terrible death."

"Most deaths are terrible."

"Fair enough. Ghost?"

For the first time since this morning, you steal a glance. His elbows rest upon his splayed knees, and the orange flames reflect in his eyes as if they were twin black, mirrors. "I could handle the squirrels."

She snorts a laugh. "Even you can't survive rabies, though."

He shrugs. "Takes some time to kill you."

"Let's play a different game," you interject. "Maybe something a little less... morbid tonight."

"Like what?" Blue chimes. 

You shrug indifferently. "What other ones do you know?"

"Not that many. You tell us one, Twix."

"Well, I know one good one. You have to act something out and then we'll guess what it is. But you can't talk."

"Oh, that's easy."

"Try it, then," you nod at her.

She leaps up from the chair, nearly spilling her tea in the process. Without hesitation, she puts on a stoic expression and begins shooting finger guns. Quiet laughter shakes your shoulders.

"Are you, um... Ghost?" you guess, making her throw her arms up.

"How did you guess so quickly?"

"It was a bit obvious."

"Not to me," Ghost murmurs. "Terrible impression, kid."

Across the fire, you glance at him again, and his eyes meet yours, reminding you of the events that took place and the words that you spat. Emotions pulse against your ribs, like a swarm of flickering fireflies, but you fail to catch and examine any of them. 

A tug on your arm ends the shared look. Tea splatters around the rim of your mug as Blue ushers you up. "Your turn now."

"Alright, alright."

You decide not to feel humiliated with both pairs of eyes on you. They've both seen much stranger things than you act out a squirrel, which must be a good impression because Ghost guesses it right away.

A sudden crack of lightning in the distance puts an end to the game before Ghost can have a turn, which you suspect he is pleased about. He puts out the fire just before clouds roll in, blocking out the stars, and a drizzle of rain begins. Back inside, you kick off your boots and sink to the sofa as Blue says goodnight. Once she’s in her room, Ghost pauses in the threshold of the hall and speaks over his shoulder.

"Get some sleep. You'll need it for tomorrow, even if it's raining.”

[yukinohiko]

Swan Song | Gojo Satoru

✧ A/N: I adore ballet, which you may know from my past pieces, and Swan Lake is a personal favourite. This fic was an opportunity to delve into that concept with Gojo — the people's white swan lol

✧ Synopsis: You find yourself in an area of the forest you've never explored before — one that's a touch more mystical than most. But the eye of your crossbow finds itself locked not on waterfowl, but something far more beautiful. Who is this half-man, half-swan creature? And why does he beckon the huntress into prey?

You first see him descend in a moonlit clearing, deep within the blue forest. Originally, you’d assumed he was merely a swan. Prey to be pierced by your arrow.

But in the eye of your crossbow, you see him unfold. Snowy white feathers molting into pale flesh, periwinkle-blue against the lake’s glittering albedo. Lean, sinewy muscle, tender skin and bone, crafting themselves from a bird into the shape of a man.

He rolls his shoulder loosely, as though stretching. Glances back at you as though he’d known you were there all along, a knowingness to his strangely luminescent eyes. They reflect light rather than capture it; animal-like, almost.

Shape-shifter, you think. Monster, old fairytales whisper in your mind.

But there’s nothing monstrous about his beauty, which strikes you in sharp absolution. He is beautiful. It’s an indisputable fact. Beautiful like the ripples in the lake under the willow tree’s tresses. Beautiful like the stars above the forest canopy. Beautiful like a sly smile on a strange swan-man’s face.

“Are you only going to stare?” he says, turning away, baring his back and nothing more. “I thought you intended to take your shot.”

You did. You had. But how can you? The crossbow wavers until you finally lower it completely.

“What are you?” you breathe, afraid to step out of the tree cover and into the moonlight where he so calmly bathes.

“That’s presumptuous,” he teases, still without facing you. His broad, unblemished back, porcelain white, remains bare like a target. “I’m a man, of course.”

“Well — who, then. Who are you?”

He laughs softly, and it’s a rich sound like water lilies in blooming season. “You’re terribly curious. Will knowing the answer change much?”

“I’ve never seen anything — anyone, like you before.” You tentatively take a step into the clearing. You see him tense, muscles stiffening, though he still doesn’t turn to face you. “Won’t you tell me?”

“What will you give me if I do?”

“What?”

“Hunter out in a forest, you’ve stolen more than you’re entitled to, I’m sure.” The water trembles around his waist as he wades further into the lake. “I’d like something in return, if you’re going to entitle yourself to my name, too.”

You’re slightly affronted by his words. “Now who’s presumptuous? I’m not a thief. These are my lands.”

“You own the earth, then? The storms that shake your estate? The underground springs that fill your wells? The roots that grow into sycamores that outlast your family name?”

You fall silent. Abashed, and yet, somehow, all the more beguiled. Is he a warlock? A forest spirit? A product of lucid dreams? You can only stare.

Finally, he turns to face you. And you see it. A long jagged scar across his torso, a gaping battle mark that disrupts the otherwise smooth skin of his chest and abdomen. You inhale sharply, feeling as though you, yourself, are wounded by such a grotesque injury.

“Satoru,” he says.

“What?”

“My name.” The enchanting swan-man smiles slightly, a flash of white teeth in the romantic lake twilight. “It’s Satoru.”

“Satoru,” you repeat softly. “What happened to you, Satoru?”

“This, you mean?” He gestures to the scar cavalierly. “Old news. Can hardly feel it anymore, to be honest.”

“It looks painful.”

“It was.” His smile gleams in the dark. Wading deeper into the lake, he raises an eyebrow while setting a lidded gaze upon you. “Won’t you come in?”

“What?” You lift your eyes from his scarred chest up to his face in surprise.

“The water is wonderful this time of day.” He holds up his hand to catch the evening light. Droplets trickle down his wrist, his forearm, spilling back into the lake. “Come in.”

“You sound like some sort of water devil,” you say lightly, feeling out the delicate mood. “A siren luring sailors to drown.”

“Oh, I’m not nearly so coy when I intend to kill someone.”

You laugh slightly, taken aback yet not truly perturbed. “Is that meant to be reassuring?”

“I don’t know.” He tilts his head, his mouth curving. “Do you feel reassured?”

You shake your head. Regardless, remembering the beguiling way he’d transformed from swan to man, you’re enchanted enough to take a few steps into the shallow end of the lake. The water is indeed an ideal temperature, neither too cold nor unpleasantly warm. A tender coolness, fresh, rippling around your calves.

Satoru watches you with those clear-glass eyes, brighter than any sky. “Do you come out here often?”

“The forest? Never this deep before. I hunt — well.” You pause in hindsight and look down, palming the water. “I usually stay at the periphery. That’s why I was so surprised to see you. Someone like you.”

“Someone like me?” He takes your hand delicately within his, guiding you deeper into the water.

“A swan who turned into a man.”

“Ah.”

“Why did you?”

“That’s a long story.” The willow tree tresses fall like a curtain around you both; you stare at Satoru’s fingers twining between yours, the water cool as it drips between your skin. Palm to palm.

“I’ve got time,” you say, meeting his gaze.

He hums.

[petermorwood]

Recent article on NPR about the history of artificial light somewhat frustrated me -- they portrayed all of pre-kerosene history as dark and heinously expensive at all times. Thing is, the writers based their findings solely on tallow candles, & ignored oil lamps, beeswax candles, clever use of refraction & outdoor light including moon/starlight... Also seemed to ignore the ubiquity of hearths / cook fires. Was wondering if you'd be willing to talk about non-tallow light? This isn't to ignore that truly, artificial lighting WAS much more difficult & expensive for much of human history, but acting like tallow candles were the ONLY light source seems very silly! (Plus your other lovely post about bottles of water used to make those candles more efficient via refraction & focus)

I'm betting the article you mean is this one - which refers back to this one.

For matching reference, my own posts about period lighting are here, One and Two, including observations about painting walls white, how to light candles and lamps without matches, and several other matters.

*****

It didn't take too much listening before I got tetchy, because the first half of this podcast seems more about mocking how WEIRD and PRIMITIVE old-time people were, than passing on any useful information.

Despite the presence of Jane Brox (author of "Brilliant: The Evolution of Artificial Light") whale oil only gets touched on in passing, and olive oil isn't mentioned at all.

Instead she starts talking about using oily seabirds (stormy petrels) as "candles", despite this scholarly study concluding that it was something talked about far more than done, besides being so very, very localised that its relevance to the history of lighting is very, very small.

But hey, WEIRD and PRIMITIVE, right?

*****

By contrast, making candles was so commonplace that it was another of those jobs which created surnames. Fletcher once put feathers on arrows, Cooper made barrels, Fisher, Miller, Baker and Farmer are obvious, and Chandler used to make candles.

Lampier, of course, made lamps, which helped keep those naked candle-flames away from anywhere they shouldn't touch. The man on the left is making the lantern bodies, the one on the right is shaving sheets of horn as windows.

It's cheaper than glass, less easily broken yet is translucent enough, when shaved properly thin, to give quite adequate light.

*****

The podcast has a digression about measuring the light output of a reproduction Ancient Babylonian lamp. Here's an original and a repro.

Yet that too says nothing about what fuel the lamp is or should be burning - olive oil, traded all over the Mediterranean by ancient olive-growing cultures.

These are Roman oil-lamps, from simple and cheap to elaborate and costly.

As for beeswax, so far as the podcast is concerned might as well not exist, despite being a by-product of honey, which was THE principal pre-sugar sweetener for centuries when not being made into all that mead whose existence, production and quaffing nobody questions.

Oh yeah, and then there was the amazed discovery (2:40 / 1:25, depending on which you're listening to) that melted beef fat "...smells really nasty, like, ANIMAL nasty,"

Why is this guy surprised? It's part of an animal!

*****

It's the same sort of infotainment ignorance as displayed by this TikTok twit, right up to complaining about the effort involved in preparation of anything because not having powered appliances was so labour-intensive, oh woe. Yes, it was, welcome to any historical period before about 1920. That's where "the daily grind" originates.

However the implication (listen, it's there) that cattle were raised just to provide fat for candles is ludicrous. The fat was a by-product, not a main one, and was often a butcher's side-line, while members of the Chandlers' Guild only worked with superior beeswax.

I don't think you could make candles like these with tallow:

...and you definitely couldn't make one meant to be hand-held.

Picture evidence shows, by their clothing, the class of society who bought these, and tallow-greasy fingers would have been a no-no.

A Chandler didn't make individual candles. By the time that fresh batch is hung up, the first batch away down at the end is cool enough to be dipped again.

A chandler's shop in a medieval city would look very similar, and often had a horizontal wheel on which to hang each batch of candles, rotating them up and around to cool, then back to the dipping pot. Non-modern people may not have had modern tech or time-and-motion studies, but they weren't stupid.

*****

By contrast, the podcast's disparaging attitude of WEIRD and PRIMITIVE is emphasised by what seems a deliberate avoidance of anything which counters it (examples of that in my own posts) and finally at 11.24 / 9:50 came this:

"Even when you get all the way to the 1700s (...) most people are still subsistence farmers, living in some kind of hut, trying to grow enough food not to starve to death (...) and light? Light still comes from finding stuff that's lying around and just lighting it on fire."

Some kind of hut...

Stuff that's lying around...

After making such a declaration, I'm surprised - since they'd been implying it for half the podcast - someone didn't just go ahead and announce that "there's some lovely filth down here..."

That's when I stopped listening.

Enough is enough, and I'd had it.

*****

ETA:

cc: @asmuchasidliketo :->

Here's a photo of what purports to be a Petrel (not petrol, that's something else) Candle, held in the Pitt-Rivers Museum, Oxford. It's mentioned in that scholarly article I linked above.

Just as "one swallow doesn't make a summer", so one - and only one - known example of this, which may have been a fake-up to spoof the Southerners, doesn't prove it was a common or even rare practice.

There's another reason to take this with a big pinch of salt, so maybe Jane Brox was on a low-sodium diet when she wrote her book.

Creatures with a layer of fat or blubber for insulation all have it like any other form of insulation, on the outside, where it does some good. A wick passed through the inside couldn't draw on it for fuel since there's a layer of muscle and another of internal organs for the oil to get through first.

The cropped-off bottle just visible to the left is a far more likely way seabirds became lamp fuel: by rendering out their oil. This oil is from the Northern Fulmar, Fulmaris glaciaris (or glacialis, I've seen both. Same bird regardless).

Incidentally, the Wikipedia article on European Storm Petrel mentions a supernatural connection, that the petrels were the souls of drowned sailors, and killing them is unlucky.

Not just killing them but making them into candles sounds like A Bad Idea, and is yet another reason why, IMO, the candle thing may be a folktale, or a deliberate leg-pull, or...

Let's just say "improbable" and leave it there. :-P

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

“…Jamil-senpai? Is that you? Ah, I-.. I didn’t expect to see you here, but it’s good to see you again. …How have you been? Have you… gotten a chance to travel the world?”

(Romantic + assume in the context of lots of things left unsaid in the past, feelings never pursued etc., either interaction or hcs whichever’s easier! Congrats on 10k+ Raven!! 🎉🎉)

What comes after Ever After?

“Ah.”

He turns when you call his name, and it’s like cupid’s arrow has shot through your chest, tearing that tender flesh apart. It’s him alright. The boy from 10 years ago, the one you almost gave your heart to—but then didn’t.

Jamil is as viper-like as ever. His form is slim and lithe, the muscle of a dancer—and trained bodyguard—concealed behind a set of demure terracotta robes with golden stitching. Dark, glossy hair falls loose over one shoulder, feathering a swan-like neck, the rest tumbling down his back adorned with beading and bangles akin to glistening scales. The pointedness to his gaze had sharpened with age, almost like he had used a knife to draw on his eyeliner.

His face is like it was before. A mask of placidity, an unreadable emotion set in the grey of his eyes—but you catch the slight purse of his lips when he glimpses you.

“… I didn’t expect to reunite with you here myself. Hello again.” Jamil humbly lowers his head in a bow, the accessories woven into his hair clinking together. Professional, formal. “It has been many a moon.”

Too many to count.

But you know, deep down, you had counted every last one of them. The glowing white orb in the sky as it waxed into existence and waned out of it… Cycling endlessly. Many nights had been spent staring out of a window, arm draped over the sill, tracing the cut of his profile in the crevices and craters of the moon.

Sometimes, using your pointer and thumb, you'd pretend to pluck that pearl out of the sky. You imagined it as a grape. Tangible, easy to have and to hold.

So close, yet so far. Untouchable, unteachable for you. Always wondering about what could have been.

You push down the sadness welling within you, forcing your happiness.

“You look as though you have something to say.” He inclines his head, and his hair seems to spill like wine into a glass. “And here I thought I was the one being asked to share my secrets.”

“Y-You are.”

There’s a faint, melodious chuckle. It blows off the dust that coats your memories, rattling them to life.

Jamil cups a hand around his mouth and whispers. Those lips are scandalous—you feel as though a snake’s forked tongue might dart out from between them, tempting you to take a bite of some forbidden fruit.

“Then shall I steal you away and bend your ear?" His eyes cut to the ongoing reunion, the chaos of it. Students chatting loudly, music bumping, fruit punch sloshing. "I fear that this celebration, amusing as it is, isn’t the most conducive for spinning my globetrotting stories.”

"Oh...!" You lit up. "So you were able to travel?"

"Predominantly for business trips, yes--though I suppose it still counts as travel. You've yet to see it for yourself, correct?" He lays a hand over his chest, offering you the other. "There's time to spare. Let me share the whole world with you."

Your heart flutters at the sight.

Is this... what I think it is? The start of something new?

In a dream-like trance, you find yourself automatically slipping your hand into his. He's slightly cool to the touch, like how you imagine the scales of a snake to be.

The moon.

You're holding it, holding him.

Jamil smiles.

At last, he has you, too.

"And perhaps, while we're at it, you would care to regale me with stories of your own. You have me curious about what it is you've been keeping to yourself all this time."

[artbysconnor]

The DnD party from Wildlife SMP in Episode 1! I just couldn't help trying my hand at these designs, since it combines two of my favorite things currently (Dungeons and Dragons and the Life Series) . Lizzie - Goliath Champion Fighter

BigB - Halfling Circle of Dreams Druid

Ren - Fairy College of Lore Bard

Jimmy - Half-Elf Oath of Redemption (Or Oath of Glory?) Paladin

See below for design notes!

Lizzie:

I knew Lizzie would be a Goliath, and was torn between giving her a martial class or making her a War Cleric. In the end, party composition won out, and she ended up a Champion Fighter, but I kept the half skirt design from her cleric thumbnails and gave her a big ol' mace. Given her pink hair is so iconic I didn't want to go full bald, so I made her hair long along the scalp and tied into two buns and a ponytail (not realistic, but it works in the drawing so I'm sticking with it!). I tried to put butterfly wings in her tattoos by her eyes, and added some flowers to further the fairy vibes on her armor and bring in the light blues from her skin as well.

BigB:

I probably was the least sure about what race and class I wanted to go with for BigB. He fluctuated between a Twilight Cleric and a Druid, and between Gnome, Dwarf, and Halfling. I ended up going with a Halfling to match his easygoing attitude, and leaned into his association with the Pale Garden as perhaps a caretaker and watchful hand over the Fey-like landscape as a Dream Druid. I knew I wanted his staff to reflect that by containing a creaking heart, but I also made his armor woven bark from the exteriors of the black and white trees, with flickers of the orange creaking magic within it, and kept his palette somewhat subdued and faded compared to his more saturated normal palette.

Ren:

Our bard Ren is probably the least detailed here on account of scale, but I put just the same amount of thought into his clothes, too! I wanted to work in little details that make use of materials that would be big for his small racial size as a fairy, such as a button for a poleyn, sewing pins for tuning pegs on his lute, and oversized ribbon ties on his costume. The main costume (a doublet and flouncy pants) is inspired by flashy, slashed Renaissance fashions - I think they suit a bard with a bragadocious energy like Ren. I added a tiny 'wolf pelt' as a cape that was probably a rat or perhaps an ermine, and his sunglasses are cut and polished crystal.

Jimmy:

Jimmy, our normal-sized normal man, was always a paladin in my mind. I wanted to put him in predominantly pretty heavy plate armor, almost like he's trying to protect himself at all costs, and pull in references to canaries and birds with the wing motif and feathered plume on the helmet and cloak clasp (and sword, which is now hidden behind BigB). The gold linear details both reinforce the pieces and provide a flash of yellow in his design to balance the cool blues and silvers, and his unpictured shield in my mind has the image of a great golden bird being pierced through the heart by an arrow or spear of some sort - a tragic house crest that Jimmy seeks to bring to glory.

[saradika-graphics]

DIVIDERS MASTERLIST

AESTHETIC - CELESTIAL

— Stars & Space | Sun

— Stars & Space | Moon

— Stars & Space | Planets

— Stars & Space | Purple

— Stars & Space | Beige/Grey

— Stars & Space | Green/White

— Stars & Space | Seafoam

— Stars & Space | Sage/Dark Green

— Stars & Space | White

— Stars & Space | Red

— Stars & Space | Pastel Blue

— Stars & Space | Pastel Pink

— Stars & Space | Pastel Green

— Dark Space

— Zodiac Dividers

— Celestial | White

— Celestial | Blue/White/Yellow

AESTHETIC - OTHER

— 50’s Neon Diner

— 70's Music / Flowers

— 80's Music / Rock

— Academia

— Angel / Cherub | Angel Numbers

— Arrows

— Art Deco (Blue Version)

— Art Nouveau

— Artist/Crafts

— Beige Daggers

— Blue & Orange Feathers

— Blood

— Books / Reading

— Bubbles

— Cameras/Photography

— Camping / Summer Camp

— Car/Roadtrip

— Casino / Cards | part ii

— Celtic

— Chess Pieces / Card Suits

— Coffee / Cigarettes

— Cottagecore / Dark Academia | part ii

— Cowboy | part ii | dark | space | christmas

— Cute Pastel

— Cybercore | Pink

— Daggers

— Eclipse

— iOS Emojis | part ii

— Fairy Lights

— Fantasy Weapons

— Forest

— Gems & Pearls

— Goblincore

— Greek

— Music Notes

— Ocean | Part ii | Part iii

— Off-Center Dividers

— Paper Airplanes

— Paper Textures

— Pink/Coquette (blue & purple)

— Pirate/Mermaid

— Ravens/Moons/Roses

— Red/Black Scroll Work | Silver/Gold

— Red Riding Hood

— Rings (Engagement/Christmas)

— Royalty | part ii

— Skeleton/Skull (black) | (grey/white)

— Smutty | Pastel

— Spooky Red / Deer

— Stained Glass

— Tech Dividers (green/black) | blue/orange

— Time

— Vampires | Royalty

— Viking

— Vintage Telephone

— Weapons

— Witchy

— Werewolves

— Windows/Webcore | part ii | part iii

✨(Everything was made using Canva - so check that app out if you’re looking to make your own! Credit is not required but a reblog would be great if you use! 💕) ✨

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Reference: 5 Symbols

for your next poem/story (pt. 5)

EGG

The egg is as powerful in its symbolism as it is potent as a life-force.

The World Egg is a ubiquitous symbol for the egg from which the Universe is said to have hatched, an idea that appears in creation myths from all parts of the world: The Celts, Hindus, Egyptians, Greeks, Phoenicians, and many more all agree about this idea.

The form this cosmic hatching takes is variable though:

Often, the egg rises from primeval waters and is incubated by a bird; in Hindu belief, this is the Hamsa, a goose.

When the egg hatches, the yolk and the white become Heaven and Earth.

The Shinto tradition says that the Universe resembled a giant hen’s egg that broke open, with the heavier parts becoming the Earth and the lighter, the Heavens.

There is also a theory that the entire Universe is contained in a huge egg that stands upright.

The egg is a symbol of new life, and this idea is borne out with chocolate eggs at Easter, which in itself is a celebration of the pre-Christian fertility Goddess, Eostre, who also gives her name to the hormone estrogen.

The subsequent celebration of Christ’s death and resurrection meant that the egg kept its significance as a symbol of new life and hope.

Archeologists have found clay eggs in Russian burial sites, reinforcing the belief in the egg as a symbol of immortality and of rebirth.

In alchemy, the Philosopher’s Egg symbolizes the seed of spiritual life, and depicts the place wherein a great transformation takes place.

The ancient riddle of what came first, chicken or egg, was deftly if disappointingly answered by Angelus Silesius, who said: The chicken was in the egg and the egg was in the chicken.

FEATHER

The Egyptian Goddess of truth, Ma’at, has the ostrich feather as her attribute. There is a very specific reason for this:

Because the ostrich is a flightless bird, the design of its feathers is different to those of other birds where one side is larger than the other.

The ostrich feather, however, is perfectly balanced and symmetrical, and so is a fitting emblem of justice.

Its symbolism is closely aligned to that of wings and birds. They stand for ascendance, flight, communication with the spirit realms and the element of air.

Shamanistic use of feathers is for all these reasons;

the feathers enable the soul to become as light as the feather and transcend the boundaries of gravity, time, and space.

Shamans of all nationalities wear feathers as a part of their ritual apparel.

The eagle feather is the most valuable of all feathers:

In some parts of the world, this feather, synonymous with all the power of the bird, is considered so sacred that only card-carrying Native American tribal members may own them. Those found in the wrong hands are the cause of heavy fines.

The swan’s feather appears in the cloaks of druids; because the swan is the bird of poetry, its feathers magically confer these powers on the bard.

Used at the end of the arrow as a “flight,” feathers have a practical as well as symbolic use.

Additionally, feathers are a symbol of sacrifice:

This is because, when chickens and other birds were ritually slaughtered, all they left behind was a few feathers, fluttering to the ground.

The other major symbolic meaning of the feather associates it with vegetation and with hair, primarily because of a similarity in appearance.

HOURGLASS

The function of the hourglass is to mark the passing of time, as sand trickles through the narrow waist in the middle of the transparent glass container that is the same shape as a figure of eight.

Therefore, it is often used as a motif to show the inevitability of death.

However, the shape of the hourglass, as well as being a visual symbol and a word used to describe the figure of a shapely woman, is a lemniscate, or infinity sign.

That the hourglass can be turned upside down to start the cycle all over again makes it an optimistic symbol of rebirth.

PHURBA

This is a sacred knife, used only in ritual practices by Tibetan Buddhists.

Like the Athame of the Western tradition, it is employed to create the sacred spaces that are used for rites and ceremonies.

Its design is based on a stake used in ancient times to tether sacrificial animals, and it is used to describe a magic circle in the same way as a compass.

Can only be owned or handled by initiates.

THYRSUS

The thyrsus was a sacred implement used in rituals and festivals during the time of the Ancient Greeks.

It was a staff, standing about as high as its owner, made from a giant fennel stalk topped with a pine cone and wrapped with vine leaves.

As a phallic symbol, it was combined with a goblet or chalice, symbolic of female energy and used to counterbalance the staff.

As well as being a symbol of male energy, though, staffs or long poles of some description have a universal use as a sacred instrument to connect the Heavens to the Earth, a conductor for the divine spirit.

Source ⚜ More: On Symbols ⚜ Writing Notes & References

[felassan]

blue lyrium veins in the Deep Roads, or an abandoned mine.

in the very next scene, Harding uses her new magical powers to protect Rook and herself from red lyrium darkspawn (blue vs red/blue and red coding cropping up a lot in this trailer..). when she uses her power, her face glows blue-white with a veiny pattern that reminds me of blue lyrium veins, and petrifying something to stone is well.. Stoney. :D (which 👁️ bc it doesnt feel like a wild out-there guess that her powers have something to do with Titan stuff [see Valta]). the color of her magic powers here is blue-white. this reminds me of this post where I was looking at her beautiful tarot-style art piece and wondering if the white 'feathers' and strands of white light amalgamating around the arrow she's about to fire there is suggestive or symbolic of her new magical powers.

I also wanna say here that the acting for Harding's dialogue line at this moment, "What is happening to me?", was so scared, emotive and well-done that my heart-broke for real. she sounded so afraid :<

later in the trailer we literally see her using her new powers to like, Earthbend! this shot reminded me a lot of Toph. :)

she's so pretty omg 😭

[pompadourpink]

Literal French expressions

À deux - at two

À la + n. - in the style of

À la carte - at the menu

À la mode - in fashion

Amateur - lover

Après-ski - after skying

À propos - about

Armoire - wardrobe

Art nouveau - new art

Au naturel - plain

Au pair - at the peer

Auteur - author

Avant-garde - before guard

Bête noire - black beast

Blasé - jaded

Bon appétit - good appetite

Bon voyage - good journey

Boutique - shop

Buffet - credenza

Bureau - office

Canapé - couch

Carte blanche - white card

C'est la vie - that's life

Chauffeur - warmer (n.)

Chef - leader

Cliché - picture

Clique - gang

Connaisseur - "knower"

Coup d'état - blow of state

Coup de grâce - blow of mercy

Coup de foudre - blow of lightning

Couture - sewing (n.)

Cul-de-sac - ass of the bag

Début - beginning

Débutante - beginner

Déjà-vu - already seen

Dénouement - untying

Dossier - file

Double entendre - double hear

... du jour - of the day

Eau de toilette - washing water

Eau de vie - life water

Encore - again

Ennui - boredom

En route - in road

Ensemble - together

Entourage - people surrounding you

Entrepreneur - starter (n.)

Essai - attempt

Esprit de l'escalier - spirit of the stairs

Étiquette - label

Exposé - exposed

Façade - frontage

Faux pas - fake step

Femme fatale - deadly woman

Film noir - black movie

Fin de siècle - end of century

Flâneur - "stroller"

Femme - woman

Folie à deux - madness at two

Foyer - fireplace, home

Gamine - female kid (casual)

Gauche - left

Gendarme - person of weapons

Je ne sais quoi - I don't know what

Laissez-faire - let (someone) do (imperative)

Laissez-passer - let (someone) pass

L'appel du vide - the call of the void

Lingerie - underwear

Maître d' - master o'

Mardi gras - fat Tuesday

Matinée - morning

Ménage à trois - household at three

Mon/ma chéri-e - my cherished

Montage - mounting

Motif - pattern

Mural - on the wall (adj.)

Né-e - born

Négligé - neglected

Nom de plume - feather name

Parole - word

Petite - small (adj.)

Pied-à-terre - foot on land

Poilu - hairy

Pot pourri - rotten pot

Pourboire - for drink

Première - first

Prêt-à-manger - ready to eat

Protégé - protected

Renaissance - rebirth

Rendez-vous - appointment

Répertoire - directory

Résumé - summary

Risqué - risked

Robe - dress

Rouge - red

RSVP - answer please

Sans-culottes - without pantaloons

Savant - "knower" (n.)

Savoir-faire - know how to do (v.)

Savoir-vivre - know how to live

Séance - session

Soirée - evening

Souvenir - memory

Suite - sequel, development

Surveillance - careful watching

Tête-à-tête - head to head

Touché - touched

Tour - circuit

Trompe-l'oeil - cheats the eye

Venue - came

Vignette - sticker, label

Vis-à-vis - face to face

Voyeur - "seer"

Ballet vocabulary:

Allongé - laid down

Balancé - swinged

Balançoire - swing (n.)

Battu - battered

Brisé - broken

Chassé - chased

Chaînés - chained

Ciseaux - scissors

Coupé - cut

Dégagé - cleared

Développé - developed

Échappé - escaped

En cloche - in bell

En croix - in cross

Entrechat - between braid

En pointe - in tip

Failli - almost did

Fouetté - whipped

Glissade - sliding

Plié - bent

Jeté - thrown

Manège - carousel

Pas de bourrée - drunk step

Pas de chat - cat step

Pas de cheval - horse step

Pas de deux - step of two

Pas de valse - waltz step

Penché - leaned

Piqué - pricked

Port de bras - carry of arms

Relevé - lifted back up

Renversé - titled, bent backwards

Retiré - removed

Rond de jambe - leg circle

Temps de flèche - arrow time Tendu - stretched

Temps lié - linked time

Tombé - fallen

Tour en l'air - turn in the air

Kitchen vocabulary:

Amuse-bouche - mouth entertainer

Bain-Marie - Mary bath

Café au lait - milky coffee

Casserole - pot

Cordon bleu - blue ribbon

Crème brûlée - burnt cream

Crème de la crème - cream of the cream

Crème fraîche - fresh cream

Croissant - crescent

Éclair - lightning

Entrée - entrance

Filet mignon - cute net

Flambé - blazed

Foie gras - fat liver

Fondant - melting

Fondue - melted

Gourmet - foodie

Hors d'oeuvre - out of the work

Légume - vegetable

Liqueur - liquid

Mille-feuille - thousand leaf

Mousse - foam

Pâté - pasted

Roux - redhead(ed)

Sauté - jumped

Sautoir - "jumper"

Soufflé - blown

Velouté - velvety

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