#that's a hell of a tag

[noficbyhalves]

Have some "Kadar is thoroughly Done with these two even from beyond the grave":

"Hey! Altair!" called a familiar voice.

He froze, turned. Leaning out of a traincar door was Kadar, waving furiously at him. He was smaller than Altair remembered, but somehow whole and hale. The only way that could be real was if- if he-

Fuck.

"I'm dead, aren't I," were the first words out of his mouth as he walked closer.

"Hello to you too, I've been lovely thanks," Kadar said dryly. The mannerism was achingly familiar, but when Altair tried to remember from what his head only pounded.

"Hi Kadar," he sighed. "Am I dead?"

"Eh, kind of?" Kadar made a so-so gesture. "You're about halfway there. Something about blood ties making curses rebound? Don't ask me, I'm just the messenger."

He had heard all this before, it was on the tip of his tongue. He died because of his grandfather, because of the war, but Altair knew there was something else, something so very important. Why couldn't he remember? Why did the inside of his skull feel so battered? "You're the messenger of... death?"

Kadar laughed. "Not for everyone, silly. It's more of a 'the universe shows you someone you trust to guide you' kind of situation."

And the universe had decided the best guide Altair could hope for was a scrawny fourteen-year-old. It would be funny if it wasn't so sad.

[...]

"You've got two options. You could go back to life and all its complicated bits," Kadar gestured vaguely at the nebulousness behind him on the platform. "Or, you can get on the train and just... let go."

"Give up?"

Kadar's expression was terribly sad. "No one's going to judge you if you want some peace, Altair. You've done plenty, if that's what you're worried about."

Altair couldn't meet his eyes. When put like that, it made perfect sense... and yet. He started walking towards the train. Maybe peace wouldn't be so bad. Kadar was here, he could see Rauf again, he could meet his parents...

Then why was his heart hammering in his chest? Why did he feel sick looking at the train?

Kadar was holding out his hand. Altair lifted his left hand to reach him, glanced down at his fingers.

...his... four fingers.

He had four fingers on that hand, because...

The pain in his head reached a fever pitch. His vision was swimming.

Because of his grandfather, because of the brand on his arm, because because because-

This is perfectly safe and I'm a fucking genius.

Altair sucked in a gasp (had he breathed at all since he opened his eyes?) and jerked his hand back. There was a phantom sensation of a hand on his jaw (only the one), a voice echoing in his ears (wake up you have to Altair please). Kadar smiled, and for once it looked real.

"I can't," Altair croaked.

"I figured. You two sort your shit out yet?"

Altair had no idea how to answer that, even if he could get enough air in his lungs. He stumbled backward, away from the train.

Kadar sighed. "Nevermind. Don't suppose you can pass a message along?"

"Will I remember this... after?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. It's usually more of a one-way situation."

Right. But Altair's wasn't because of blood magic or something. The rules of magic really were bullshit. If he remembered this enough to share, Malik would have a conniption. Altair nodded, "I'll try."

"Tell him I love him, and it's not his fault either."

Altair gaped. "How-"

"I've known him my whole life, and I'm not an idiot?"

The laugh bubbling out of his throat was edging on hysterical. "I- yeah, yeah okay." He turned away, towards the unnerving blankness on the other side of the platform. "How do I-?"

When he glanced over his shoulder, Kadar gave him the world's most exaggerated shrug. Truly unhelpful.

Nothing for it but to do it. Altair shut his eyes and walked into the fog.

[icarian-carrion]

strange aeons

Tisha has never been particularly fond of New England.

There’s something overwhelmingly spooky about it, even in the drizzling post Halloween hangover. It seems to have more ghosts, ghouls, witches and demons than just about anywhere else on the continent, and the fae were thick on the ground. The man sitting across Essex street was none of those, though. In fact, she couldn’t tell exactly what he was. She’d been sketching him long enough now to get a decent portrait, but it was just… a portrait. It was foggy, shadowed, with black eyes, because a voice in her head kept telling her not to look. 

Here lies Tisha Whileaway. She never could leave well enough alone.

With that thought, Tisha sighed, grabbing her coffee and her sketchbook and crossing the empty pedestrian street. When she was a few feet from him, she waved to get his attention. “Hey-”

That is not dead which can eternal lie- Tisha clamps her hands over her ears, nearly spilling her coffee, as if she stands a chance at silencing something inside her head. No no no no don’t look, you’re not strong enough, don’t look- but she can’t stop herself from seeing, eyes glassy and far away, all of it like the last impressions of a dream layered over her waking vision. Black-green stone like the Salish Sea in a storm, cyclopean structures weeping venom, the kind of cold that fills eternity. Formless, endless chaos in the cosmos, twisting limbs, wide eyes, so many eyes, so many mouths, so many whispers. Tisha retches, and she would swear that it wasn’t bile at the back of her throat, but seawater, black and seething with seaweed and ice cold, water like a drowning test performed on a witch. She chokes, then coughs, and realizes that her nose is bleeding. Just blood, then. Just blood, not the sea lurching under he skin.

Tisha grabs a crumpled tissue from her bag and wipes under her nose. How long had it been since something had reached into her brain and threatened to crack open her skull with the expansiveness of it? She can still hear whispers in strange aeons in strange aeons instrangeaeonsinstrangeTHEIRGODSWILLFINDME- but she shakes her head firmly. They’ll go away. They always go away. 

“Sorry.” She mumbles, not sure that she is, actually, sorry. “Sorry. Uh. Hey. I’m… I’m Tisha.” whatareyouwhatareyouwhattheFUCKAREYOU- “What’s up?”

@chewsyourfate

[chessb0r3d]

Analysis so bad you don't even know what it's talking about anymore.

[abisalli]

Jason but he wears this helmet 😼

[neurovarious]

[sparklejumpropequeen1949]

This or nothing

[shayneysides]

hobie: kill yourself

pavitr: WHAT THE HELL BRO WHAT DID I DO

original format from @ha-youwish in this post!

[facts-i-just-made-up]

[ravenmccookies]

Weird phenomenon I've seen on tumblr

[egophiliac]

you know, I've been thinking about it, and there is actually one single scenario in which I would be okay with not getting a big ol' "Silver Vanrouge" out of Lilia.

(just kidding, I still need some "call me Silver, Mr. Vanrouge is my father" in my life, please don't let me down on this one Twst)

[ketzzzel]

lunch

[1nfcteds1llnesz]

HI HI HI HI HI HI HI HI HELLOOOOOOOOOO

Posting here because geez… I get 0 attention on Twitter…. I got faith in tumblr

Anyways appol Grian inspired by a post on twit …

Thank yewww for your attentionnnnnnnn

[honeypleasejustkillme]

i thought i was at my lowest but holy shit it gets lower

[transformers-earthspark]

IMPORTANT: TUMBLR HAS MADE A DEAL WITH MIDJOURNEY/OPENAI.

YOUR ART AND IMAGES ON TUMBLR ARE BEING USED TO TRAIN AI MODELS.

The opt-in is automatic, but you can turn it off in settings.

Go to "Blog Settings" -> "Visibility" -> "Third-Party Sharing" and turn on "Prevent third-party sharing for [blog]". (This post shows how to do it on browser and on mobile.) You need to do this with every sideblog. (Note: The option in settings might not appear if your app hasn't updated yet. You can still opt out via browser.)

Spread the word. Everyone on Tumblr needs to know about this.

[heyitsspaceace]

“doctor who is too silly now!”

oh you mean the doctor who that has flattened human skin as a character? the doctor who that has the episode love and monsters? the doctor who that says that the english royal family is werewolves? the doctor who that has james corden in it? the doctor who that in the same episode that james corden is in not only does the doctor speak baby, but the baby wants to be named Stormageddon, Dark Lord of All, AND the doctor can also play soccer very well.

doctor who has always been silly

[trainwreckgenerator]

top ten polycules most likely to destroy all life on earth