#tlot

[blcodyhell]

Random Legolas Greenleaf moments: 152/?

[megatron-fucks]

So I'm close to starting to post Peace is a Dead Rat: the sequel to Lesser Evil. Which is exciting because I've been working on it basically since I finished Lesser Evil and it feels a bit special to me.

And since I've had such a good time with the big bangs, I was thinking about asking some artists if they were interested in doing art of piadr, which would mean getting to read it* early and also I'm definitely open to art trades, commissions, etc. if people want.

*(I have not entirely finished piadr and even the complete chapters are still being fine tuned, but I'm sure we can work something out.)

I'll probably speak to a couple of people directly but if anyone else is interested HMU!

[lucius-in-the-walls]

Soooo....Nick Offerman new tumblr sexyman?

[libertymiddleway]

American Rounds - What is Automated Ammo Retail ?

[trendfilmsetter]

THE LEGEND OF TARZAN released in theaters 8 years ago today.

[stupidnymph]

[underwhelmingalchemist]

Someone tell me why I, someone with intense aversions to both zombies and fungi, am sitting down and watching The Last of Us

[dilfdoctordoom]

Even if I ignore all my many many issues with how Gamora was handled, volume 3 still doesn't deal with what's come before it very well and it results in the ending feeling disjointed

[jellyfemmedyke]

The world would be a better place if the legends of tomorrow made Sara Lance butch

[tamblerdraws]

Gonna post about my au again

I want Jimmy to kinda look like falin

With all the feathers n stuff

(Also he is half rito in my au

Bc birb)

[peri94]

🌑Charlie🌑 ^^

[afabkaidou]

Yk what's crazy? When I'm bored I just talk. I'm so incredibly bored rn so beware

[bannanasareew]

Ghost Town

=============

Tragedy, it was something that one wouldn't usually expect in a town as tiny as that one.

In a world where disconnection from events feels oh so right and oh so familiar... when a tragedy only a few blocks away from you occurs... it's scary.

1984.

Maurice and Dahlia are finally able to be out of their homes, still a fondness of their hometown and a lack of any kind of motorized vehicles keeps them there. The town was small and even if you were to try to leave you'd end up having your only path out be from the side of a mountain.

It was isolated- the people living there obviously wanting to be away from the rest of the world.

However... when people oh so desperately want to be far away from society... there are always differing reasons. And some can tend to be a bit dangerous. Especially when you're so far away from the outside world and any help that could bring.

==========

It all started in 1979.

Sophia Halwell, born October 14th 1985, was found dead.

Drowned in a lake during late december.

They weren't sure how long she had been dead, the cold weather had stopped a lot of the decoposition, but it seemed like it had been only a day since. The Halwell family was distraught, not being heard from outside of close friends, and after Lucy and Gerald's divorce triggered by the death of Sophia it seemed like all connected to it was closed.

Dahlia and Maurice were 17 at the time, the families in the town on a sort of lock-down from the fear that someone in their small community had turned and killed Sophia. But after a while the suspected cause was simply a slip and fall into the lake that was too deep and too cold to escape from. The body naturally seizes up when it hits something too cold too quickly and so that was where the case ended.

Everything went back to normal by 1981, few memories lingered save from the still tired expression of George Halwell.

The poor... poor man.

But when people begin to hide again, when the town feels dimmer, missing cases begin to surface and bodies begin to disappear from the morgue... it seems that the town has been struck with tragedy again. Maurice and Dahlia, only days after their downstairs neighbor, gas station worker and college student- Josh- begins to act weird, end up accidentally summoning the ghosts of the people having gone missing. And so slowly they uncover the darker secrets in the town

[beaft]

october 13th

happy friday the thirteenth, everyone! and to celebrate, here's that poem you probably read at school that one time! today's spooky poem is "the highwayman", a delightfully melodramatic ballad by alfred noyes. there's an analysis of it here and a sung version by loreena mckennit here. and once you've listened to that you can watch this, if you're so inclined.

THE HIGHWAYMAN

Part I

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.  The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.  the road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,    And the highwayman came riding— Riding—riding— The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin, A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin. They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh.    And he rode with a jewelled twinkle, His pistol butts a-twinkle, His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard. He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred. He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there    But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord’s daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked.    His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,    But he loved the landlord’s daughter, The landlord’s red-lipped daughter. Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night, But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light; Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,    Then look for me by moonlight, Watch for me by moonlight, I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”

He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand, But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast; And he kissed its waves in the moonlight, (O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!) Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.

Part II He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon; And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon, When the road was a gipsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor, A red-coat troop came marching Marching—marching— King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door. They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead, But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed; Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side! There was death at every window; And hell at one dark window; For Bess could see, through the casement, the road that he would ride. They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest; They bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast! "Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say Look for me by moonlight; Watch for me by moonlight; I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way! She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good! She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood! They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years, Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, Cold, on the stroke of midnight, The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest! Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast, She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again; For the road lay bare in the moonlight; Blank and bare in the moonlight; And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain. Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear; Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear? Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill, The highwayman came riding, Riding, riding! The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up strait and still! Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night! Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light! Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath, Then her finger moved in the moonlight, Her musket shattered the moonlight, Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him - with her death. He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood! Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear How Bess, the landlord's daughter, The landlord's black-eyed daughter, Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there. Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky, With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high! Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat, When they shot him down on the highway, Down like a dog on the highway, And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.

And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees, When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, A highwayman comes riding Riding—riding— A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door. Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard, And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred; He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

—Alfred Noyes

[stromuprisahat]

So, what's up with these four hundred years as The Darkling's age? If I'm reading it correctly, maybe not. But didn't he tell Alina he's 120? How many lives like that could he actually live for that time?

He's older.

I don't remember if there are official numbers for the show, but Leigh didn't want to specify. According to KoS, the Fold is about four hundred years old (Chapter 17- thanks @yototothelalafell) and the Darkling wasn't exactly baby immortal, when he made it. Second Army was established by then and that took some time too, Aleksander spent his "youth" travelling the world and learning (TLoT)... that should add him at least another three hundred. I've always seen Bookling as around a millennium-old, therefore his numbness, tiredness and general air of "I've seen this shit so many times before...".

The age he told Alina was an official number. His current identity's age. I wouldn't dare to guess how many he shed, but the last one was supposed to be the most powerful, therefore it's safe to assume he usually "died" sooner.

Show!Aleksander feels younger, more hopeful and alive. Even Second Army was established relatively recently if I remember correctly. I'd guess him around five hundred.